I 


ELEANOR  GATES 

Jluthorof 
"THE  POOR  LITTLE  RICH  GIRL" 


PHOEBE 


OF  GLUT.  MHURT.  IX*  ANGSTS 


PHOEBE 


;BY 
ELEANOR  GATES 


NEW     YORK 

GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISH  ERS 


COPYRIGHT  1919,  BY 
ELE ANO  R    GATES 


All  rights  reserved 


Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED  TO  THAT 

LITTLE   GIRL   WHOSE   STORY 

IT  IS 


2129724 


PHOEBE 

CHAPTER  I 

"Dear  little  daughter''  ran  the  telegram,  "when 
you  get  this,  fill  a  suit-case  with  a  few  things  that 
you'll  need  most,  and  leave  with  Daddy  for  Grand- 
ma's.— Mother." 

THE  train  was  already  moving.  Phoebe,  with  all 
the  solemnity  of  her  fourteen  years,  puckered  her 
brows  over  the  slip  of  yellow  paper,  winked  her 
long  lashes  at  it  reflectively,  and  pursed  a  troubled 
mouth.  How  strange  that  dear  Mother  should 
leave  the  New  York  apartment  in  mid-morning, 
with  the  usual  gay  kiss  that  meant  short  separa- 
tion; and  then  in  that  same  hour  should  send  this 
message — this  command — which  was  to  start 
Phcebe  away  from  the  great  city,  where  all  of  her 
short  life  had  been  spent,  toward  that  smaller  city 
where  lived  the  Grandmother  she  had  never  seen, 
and  the  two  Uncles — one  a  Judge  and  the  other  a 


ii 


12  Phoebe 

clergyman — who,  though  her  father's  own  brothers, 
were  yet  strangers  to  their  only  niece! 

Somehow,  without  having  to  be  told,  Phoebe  had 
always  understood  that  Mother  did  not  like  Grand- 
ma, or  the  Uncles,  judicial  and  ecclesiastic.  Then 
why  was  Mother,  without  a  real  farewell,  and 
without  motherly  preparation  in  the  matter  of 
dress,  and  with  no  explanations,  sending  Phoebe  to 
those  paternal  relations  ? 

It  was  all  very  strange !  It  was  mysterious,  like — 
yes,  like  stories  Phoebe  had  seen  in  moving-pictures. 

Out  of  the  gloom  and  clangor  of  the  great  sta- 
tion, the  train  was  now  fast  winding  its  way,  past 
lights  that  burned,  Phoebe  thought,  like  those  in  the 
big  basement  of  the  apartment  house  where  she 
had  lived  so  long.  Now  the  coach  was  leaving  one 
pair  of  rails  for  a  new  pair — changing  direction 
with  a  sharp  clicking  of  the  wheels  and  a  heavy 
swaying  of  the  huge  car's  body.  And  now  the  line 
of  coaches  was  straightening  itself  to  take,  as  Phoebe 
knew,  that  long  plunge  under  the  southward  flowing 
Hudson. 

She  let  the  telegram  fall  to  her  lap  and  closed 
her  eyes,  with  a  drawing  in  of  the  breath.  She  was 
picturing  all  that  lay  above  the  roof  of  the  car  and 


Phoebe  13 

the  larger  domed  roof  of  the  tunnel — first  there 
was  the  river-bed,  which  the  domed  roof  upheld; 
next,  the  wide,  deep  reach  of  water  which,  in  turn, 
held  up  the  ferries  and  any  other  passing  ships; 
last  of  all,  the  sky,  cloud-flecked  and  sun-lit,  through 
which  winged  the  birds.  What  a  load  for  that  nar- 
row, domed  roof ! 

Her  father  had  been  busy  with  the  luggage,  di- 
recting the  porter  about  the  disposal  of  the  two  suit- 
cases while  taking  off  his  own  overcoat  and  hat. 
But  as  he  glanced  down  at  Phcebe,  he  misunder- 
stood the  lowering  of  telegram  and  eyelids,  and 
dropped  quickly  to  a  place  beside  her.  His  hand 
closed  over  hers,  lovingly,  and  with  a  pressure  that 
showed  concern.  "Phcebe?"  he  questioned  ten- 
derly. 

She  opened  her  eyes  with  a  sudden  reassuring 
smile.  Though  in  the  last  three  or  four  years  her 
father  had  been  absent  from  home  long  months 
at  a  time,  so  that  during  any  year  she  might  see 
him  only  seldom,  and  then  for  brief  afternoons 
only,  her  affection  for  him  was  deep,  and  scarcely 
second  to  her  love  for  her  mother.  Each  visit  of 
his  was  marked  by  gifts  as  well  as  by  a  holiday  out- 
ing— to  the  Park,  the  Zoo,  or  some  moving-picture 


14  Phoebe 

theatre ;  so  that  gratitude  and  pleasure  mingled  with 
her  happiness  at  seeing  him.  Also,  his  visits  had, 
for  her,  the  novelty  and  joy  of  the  unexpected.  He 
came  from  Somewhere — mysteriously;  and  went 
again,  into  an  Unknown  that  Phcebe  made  a  part 
of  her  day-dreams. 

And  so  her  love  for  him  was  tinged  with  some- 
thing of  the  romantic.  She  was  proud  of  him,  and 
she  thought  him  handsome.  Her  mother  never 
exclaimed  over  him,  but  other  people  did.  "Was 
that  your  father  I  saw  you  with  yesterday?"  they 
would  ask;  and  when  Phcebe  said  Yes,  they  would 
add,  "Oh,  but  isn't  he  good-looking !"  All  of  which 
delighted  Phcebe,  who  long  since  had  compared  him 
with  the  heroes  she  had  seen  pictured  on  the  screen 
— which  comparison  was  to  the  very  great  disad- 
vantage of  the  film  favorites.  Her  father  was  to 
her  so  gallant  a  figure  that  she  often  wondered  at 
her  mother's  indifference  to  him.  But  then  mother 
herself  was  so  lovely! 

Phcebe  Blair  was  like  her  father.  Her  eyes 
were  gray-blue,  and  set  so  far  apart  on  either  side 
of  her  nose  that  the  upper  half  of  her  face,  at 
first  glance,  had  the  appearance  of  being,  if  any- 
thing, a  trifle  too  wide — which  made  her  firm  lit- 


Phoebe  15 

tie  chin  seem,  correspondingly,  a  trifle  too  peaked. 
Her  hair  was  light  brown,  thick  to  massiness,  but 
straight  save  where  it  blew  against  the  clear  pink 
of  her  cheeks  in  slightly  curling  tendrils.  Of  her 
features,  it  was  her  mouth  that  challenged  her 
eyes  in  beauty — a  fine,  sweet  mouth  that  registered 
every  mood  of  those  grave  and  womanly  eyes.  As 
for  her  height,  it  was  a  matter  of  the  greatest 
pride  to  her  that  she  already  reached  to  her  father's 
shoulder.  But  she  was,  despite  her  height,  Still 
the  little  girl — sailor  hat  on  bobbed  hair,  serge 
jacket  worn  over  blue  linen  dress,  slim,  brown- 
stockinged  legs,  and  laced  brown  shoes. 

Her  father  was  thirty-seven.  It  seemed  an  al- 
most appalling  age  to  his  small  daughter.  And  yet 
he  still  had  a  boyish  slenderness.  He  was  tall,  and 
straight,  with  a  carriage  that  was  noticeably  mili- 
tary— acquired  at  the  preparatory  school  to  which 
his  elder  brothers  had  sent  him.  His  hair,  brown 
and  thick  like  his  daughter's,  was  just  beginning  to 
show  a  sprinkling  of  gray  at  the  temples.  His  eyes 
were  Phoebe's  eyes — set  wide  apart,  given  to  straight 
looking,  and  quick,  friendly  smiles.  He  had  pre- 
sented her  with  his  straight  nose,  too,  and  his  mouth. 
But  his  chin  was  firmer  than  hers,  a  man's  chin,  and 


1 6  Phoebe 

the  chin  of  a  man  who,  once  having  set  forward 
on  any  course,  does  not  turn  back. 

Phoebe  thought  him  quite  perfect.  And  she 
thought  it  wonderful  that  he  should  be  a  mining- 
engineer.  "It's  a  clean  business,"  he  had  told  her 
once,  when  she  was  about  ten  years  of  age.  "It 
takes  a  man  into  the  big  out-doors."  She  had 
treasured  up  what  he  had  said — turned  it  over  in 
her  mind  again  and  again.  And  had  come  to  feel 
that  her  father  was  entirely  different  from  the  men 
whom  she  met  in  her  home — a  man  set  wholly 
apart. 

His  profession  explained  to  her  his  long  ab- 
sences from  New  York,  and  the  fact  that,  in  the 
last  year  or  so,  he  had  been  compelled  to  make 
a  club  his  headquarters  during  the  period  of  his 
short  stays  in  the  city.  "This  place  is  so  tiny," 
Phoebe's  mother  always  said.  "And  all  Daddy's 
traps  are  at  the  Club."  It  had  never  occurred  to 
Phoebe  to  doubt  anything  that  Mother  told  her. 
And  did  not  her  father  fully  corroborate  this  ex- 
cuse of  Mother's?  Phoebe  longed  to  have  her  father 
stay  at  home  when  he  arrived  in  town.  But  she 
never  complained  against  his  being  away.  Hers 
was  a  patient,  a  trusting,  a  sturdy  little  soul. 


Phoebe  17 

With  her  smile  of  reassurance,  Phoebe  had  leaned 
toward  her  father,  to  speak  confidingly.  "You 
know,  Daddy,"  she  began,  "it  seems  so  funny  that 
Mother  had  me  go  the  way  she  did.  Don't  you 
think  so? — without  saying  why  she  wanted  me  to 
leave,  or — or  anything?  Did  she  say  anything 
about  it  to  you?" 

"Well,  you  see,"  her  father  answered,  "having 
you  go  this  way  spared  your  dear  little  heart.  No 
good-byes,  or  tears.  But  pretty  soon  Grandma's, 
with  Uncle  Bob,  and  Uncle  John,  and  a  big  garden, 
and  a  horse " 

"A  horse !"  marveled  Phcebe. 

"Oh,  he's  an  old  horse,  and  he  pulls  the  surrey. 
Because  Uncle  Bob  won't  have  a  motor  car — he 
wants  to  walk  to  and  from  the  Court  House,  and 
keep  down  his  weight,  and " 

"Uncle  Bob  is  fat?"  Phcebe  inquired. 

"Well,  stout.  And  Uncle  John,  being  a  clergy- 
man, and  a  trifle  particular,  doesn't  believe  minis- 
ters should  rush  around  in  automobiles.  So  the 
surrey  is  for  Uncle  John,  but  Grandma  will  let  you 
drive  for  her  sometimes.  And  there  are  ducks  and 
chickens  to  feed,  and  big  beds  of  flowers,  and  a  tall, 


1 8  Phoebe 

green  hedge  where  the  birds  build  their  nests, 
and " 

"And  when  will  Mother  come?"  interposed 
Phoebe,  with  an  intonation  which  made  plain  her 
opinion  that  it  would  certainly  take  mother  to 
make  the  suburban  picture  complete. 

"Phoebe,"  said  her  father,  speaking  with  a  new 
earnestness,  "Mother  is  not  very  well,  and  she  is 
planning  to  leave  New  York  for  a  while,  and  go 
where  she  can  get  better." 

"I  know  she  isn't  very  well,"  agreed  Phoebe. 
"She  coughs  too  much." 

"Exactly.  You  know,  Mother's  health  hasn't 
been  good  for  quite  a  while " 

"I  know." 

"And  she  must  have  the  change.  I  didn't  want 
to  have  you  go,  dear,  to  a  strange  city,  where  your 
mother  has  no  friends,  and  might  be  very  ill.  So 
away  you  go  to  Grandma's  till  everything  is 

straightened  out.  And  you'll Oh,  look  at  that 

automobile! — there!  It's  keeping  up  with  the 
train!  My!  My!  but  that's  considerable  speed- 
ing!" 

They  talked  of  other  things  then, — of  the  homes 
past  which  they  were  rushing,  the  towns  through 


Phoebe  19 

which  they  glided  and  grandly  ignored,  except  for 
a  gingerly  slowing  down.  Noon  came,  and  with  it 
a  visit  to  the  dining-car.  Then  the  afternoon 
dragged  itself  along.  Toward  the  latter  half  of  it, 
Phcebe,  worn  by  the  excitement  of  the  sudden  de- 
parture, and  lulled  by  the  motion  of  the  train, 
curled  up  on  the  green  plush  of  the  car  seat  and 
fell  asleep,  her  short  brown  hair  spread  fanwise 
upon  her  father's  shoulder. 

The  afternoon  went;  twilight  came.  Still  the 
train  rushed  on,  carrying  Phoebe  northward  toward 
that  new  home  awaiting  her.  She  slept  a  second 
time,  after  a  simple  supper.  Her  journey  was  to 
end  shortly  before  midnight.  For  this  reason  her 
father  judged  it  best  that  a  berth  should  not  be 
made  up  for  her,  but  that  she  should  rest  as  she  had 
in  the  afternoon,  her  head  on  his  breast. 

She  smiled  as  she  slept,  blissfully  unaware  that  all 
at  once  her  happy  life  was  changing;  that  she  was 
being  uprooted  like  some  plant;  that  a  tragedy 
of  which  she  was  as  yet  mercifully  ignorant  had 
come  forward  upon  her,  wave-like  and  overwhelm- 
ing, to  sweep  her  forever  from  her  course! 


CHAPTER  II 

A  RAIN  was  drenching  the  blackness  of  the  night 
as  the  New  York  train  reached  the  small  city  that 
was  Phcebe's  destination.  Her  father  had  wakened 
her  a  little  in  advance  of  their  stop,  and  when 
she  had  washed  her  face  and  smoothed  her  hair,  she 
had  peered  through  the  double  glass  of  a  car  win- 
dow a-stream  with  water — and  then  recoiled  from 
the  panes  with  a  sinking  of  the  heart.  How  dark 
it  was  out  there!  how  stormy!  how  lightless  after 
a  life-time  in  a  city  which,  no  matter  at  what  hour 
she  might  awake,  was  always  alight ! 

A  long  whistle  made  her  catch  up  her  hat  and 
adjust  its  elastic  under  her  chin.  The  porter  had 
already  taken  her  father's  suit-case  and  her  own  to 
the  forward  end  of  the  coach.  With  a  wild  thump- 
ing in  her  breast  and  a  choking  in  her  throat,  she 
followed  her  father  to  the  vestibule,  where  the  por- 
ter waited  with  the  suit-case  and  a  small,  square 
stool  upon  which,  presently,  she  stepped  down  to 
meet  the  rain. 

20 


Phoebe  21 

There  was  a  single  light  in  the  station,  and  be- 
side it  leaned  a  young  man  in  an  agent's  cap.  With 
her  hand  on  her  father's  arm — for  he  was  carry- 
ing both  of  the  cases — she  crossed  a  double  line 
of  glistening  rails  to  the  depot,  not  taking  her 
eyes  from  the  agent,  who  represented  to  her,  at 
the  moment,  the  sole  sign  of  life  and  refuge  in  that 
black,  roaring  downfall. 

Then,  "Jim!" 

"Hello,  Bob!"  Her  father  dropped  the  luggage 
and  stretched  both  hands  out  to  a  figure  that  had 
emerged,  in  a  shining  raincoat,  from  the  black- 
ness. 

"And  Phcebe!"  exclaimed  Uncle  Bob,  lifting 
Phcebe  from  her  feet  and  at  the  same  time  turning 
himself  about,  so  that  she  was  carried  forward  to 
the  shelter  of  a  roof.  "God  bless  her !  We'll  jump 
into  the  surrey,  Jim,  and  I'll  have  you  home  in  a 
jiffy.  What  a  ghastly  night! — It'll  take  the  snow 
off,  Phcebe.  But  we'll  have  more.  And  then  for 
some  sleigh-rides!" 

The  train  was  gone,  booming  into  the  distance, 
with  parting  shrieks  that  grew  fainter  and  fainter. 
As  Phcebe  was  helped  to  the  rear  seat  of  the  sur- 
rey, Uncle  Bob  holding  aside  the  curtains  that  shut 


22  Phoebe 

out  the  storm,  she  turned  her  head  to  look  through 
the  night  to  where  great  sparks  were  going  up  with 
the  smoke  of  the  engine.  The  train  was  leaving 
her — that  train  which  seemed  her  only  link  with 
New  York,  with  the  beloved  apartment  that  was  to 
her  the  home-nest,  with  her  mother — her  dear, 
beautiful  mother. 

Phoebe  gulped. 

From  the  front  seat  sounded  her  uncle's  voice — • 
a  nice  voice,  she  concluded,  though  not  at  all  like 
Daddy's.  As  if  he  understood  something  of  what 
she  was  feeling — the  lostness,  the  loneliness,  the 
sensation  of  being  torn  up  and  thrust  out — her 
father  had  taken  his  seat  beside  her  and  put  an 
arm  about  her,  drawing  her  so  closely  to  him  that, 
for  comfort,  she  was  forced  to  take  off  her  hat. 
The  surrey  was  moving.  And  its  two  side-lamps 
were  casting  a  rain-blurred  light  upon  the  flanks 
of  a  bay  horse.  Phoebe  peered  forward  at  the 
horse.  She  had  pictured  him  after  horses  she  had 
seen  in  Central  Park — shiny-coated  saddlers,  or 
carnage  pairs,  proud  and  plump  and  high-stepping, 
with  docked  tails  and  arching  necks.  But  this  horse 
was  almost  thin,  and  moved  slowly,  with  a  plop* 
plop-plop  through  the  miry  puddles  of  the  unpaved 


Phoebe  23 

street.  This  horse  had  a  long  tail,  and  his  head 
was  on  a  level  with  his  back.  Phoebe  was  disap- 
pointed. 

The  drive  took  some  time.  Yet  conversation 
lagged,  and  was  a  one-sided  affair  between  Uncle 
Bob  and  the  horse,  in  which  the  former  urged  the 
latter  to  "Get  up"  and  "Go  'long."  Here  and  there 
a  street  light  shone  with  a  sickly  yellow  flame 
through  the  pelting  drops.  Phoebe  tried  to  see 
something  of  the  town,  to  right  and  left  over  Uncle 
Bob's  wide  shoulders.  But  only  the  dim  outlines 
of  buildings  were  discernible.  Strange  and  stormy 
was  the  little  she  could  see.  And  there  rose  in  her 
a  feeling  against  this  town  into  which  she  was 
come;  so  that,  with  Grandma  and  Uncle  John  still 
to  meet  and  know,  she  yet  longed  for  a  quick  turn- 
about, and  a  train  that  would  carry  her  away  again 
— away  and  away  to  the  great  city,  to  her  little  bed 
and  her  pretty  mother. 

The  surrey  drew  up  beside  a  large  house  that 
showed  a  dozen  glowing  windows,  and  as  the  wheels 
scraped  the  boards  of  a  step,  voices  called  out  in 
greeting,  and  Uncle  Bob  answered  them.  "I've 
got  'em!"  he  cried.  Whereupon  a  hand  pulled  at  , 
the  curtain  of  the  surrey  on  Phoebe's  side,  and  here, 


24  Phoebe 

under  an  umbrella,  was  a  tall,  thin  gentleman  in 
black,  who  wore  eye-glasses  and  had  large  teeth. 
"Our  dear  little  niece !"  he  exclaimed.  And  Phoebe 
climbed  down  to  him,  steadying  herself  by  his  hand, 
and  was  led  by  him  to  a  wide  door  where  Grandma 
was  waiting — a  slender  little  lady  in  a  gray  dress. 

Phcebe  permitted  herself  to  be  kissed,  first  by 
Grandma,  then  by  Uncle  John,  as  the  man  with 
large  teeth  proved  to  be,  then  by  Uncle  Bob,  who 
had  shed  his  rain-coat  and  now  stood  forth,  a 
heavy-set  person,  quite  bald,  and  apple-cheeked, 
with  smiling  blue  eyes. 

The  greetings  over,  Phcebe  fell  back  a  step,  felt 
for  and  found  her  father's  hand,  and  then  lost  her- 
self in  contemplation  of  the  trio  of  new  relatives. 
Of  them,  Daddy  had,  assuredly,  spoken  frequently. 
But,  man-like,  he  had  never  essayed  a  description 
of  them,  never  endowed  them  either  with  virtues  or 
faults,  never  taught  her  in  advance  to  render  to  the 
three  any  love  or  loyalty.  So  that  now,  apprais- 
ing them,  Phcebe  was  unprejudiced  in  her  judg- 
ment,- and  viewed  them  as  she  might  have  viewed 
three  strangers  who  were  not  related.  How  very 
old  Grandma  was!  Phcebe  noted  that  the  white 
head  trembled  steadily,  as  if  Grandma  were,  per- 


Phoebe  25 

haps,  cold.  As  for  Uncle  John,  there  was  some- 
thing altogether  forbidding  about  him — eye-glasses, 
teeth  and  all.  Aloofness  was  a  part  of  her  feeling 
toward  this  clerical  uncle.  But  Uncle  Bob — upon 
his  apple-round  cheeks  glistened  drops  that  Phoebe 
knew  were  not  rain.  And  his  eyes  were  shining 
with  something  that  Phoebe  recognized — the  some- 
thing she  knew  as  love.  He  was  big,  he  was  round, 
he  was,  oh,  so  very  homely.  But  straightway,  with 
a  child's  true  instinct,  Phoebe  loved  him. 

Behind  the  three  was  another  figure.  Phoebe 
first  glimpsed  the  white  apron,  which  to  her  city- 
bred  eyes  meant  that  here  was  a  maid.  And  such 
a  funny  maid,  in  a  lavender  dress,  with  no  cap  on 
tousled  yellowish  hair  that  had  been  kinked  rather 
than  curled.  The  maid  had  a  wide,  grinning  mouth, 
and  eager,  curious,  hazel  eyes.  Yet  altogether  she 
was  a  likeable  person,  Phoebe  decided.  Youth  spoke 
to  youth  across  the  Blair  sitting-room.  So  that 
when  all  were  seated  in  the  high-ceilinged  dining- 
room  for  a  bite  of  supper,  Phoebe  answered  Sophie's 
smile  with  one  of  her  own,  and  for  the  cup  of 
steaming  chocolate  that  was  set  at  her  plate  mur- 
mured a  friendly  "Thank  you." 

The  supper  was  a  quiet  affair.    Grandma  bobbed 


26  Phoebe 

and  nodded  over  her  cholocate,  speaking  only  when 
Sophie  was  to  fetch  something  or  when  one  of  the 
three  men  needed  to  be  urged  to  another  helping. 
Uncle  John  spoke  not  at  all — after  he  had  said 
what  Phoebe  afterwards  learned  was  "a  blessing". 
He  looked  at  his  food  crossly.  Phoebe's  father  had 
little  to  say,  too.  He  looked  tired  and  white.  And 
when  he  smiled  at  Phoebe,  he  seemed  not  to  see  her, 
but  to  be  looking  beyond  somehow.  Only  Uncle 
Bob  appeared  cheerful.  His  eyes  danced  when 
Phcebe  lifted  her  eyes  to  him  shyly.  Every  now 
and  then  he  patted  her  shoulder.  But — compared 
by  her  New  York  standards — Phoebe  voted  the  sup- 
per altogether  dreary — the  result,  she  felt  sure,  of 
having  Uncle  John  present. 

A  little  later,  she  was  conducted  to  her  room  by 
Sophie.  How  unlike  was  that  strange  bed-chamber 
to  the  wee,  cosy  place,  all  rose  hangings  and  sheer 
white,  which  for  as  long  as  her  memory  could 
trace  had  held  her  white  bed  and  the  twin  one 
that  was  her  mother's !  The  new  room  was  at  the 
top  of  a  long,  wide  stairway  that  wound  back  upon 
itself.  The  new  room  was  high,  and  surely  as 
large,  Phcebe  thought,  as  all  of  the  New  York  apart- 
ment made  into  one.  It  had  lace  curtains  at  both 


Phoebe  27 

windows,  and  there  was  an  old-style  dressing-table, 
slabbed  over  its  top  with  mottled  marble.  When 
Phoebe  touched  the  marble,  she  drew  back  from  it, 
and  stared,  a  little  amazed.  It  was  so  cold! 

Sophie  seemed  to  guess  something  of  what  was 
passing  through  Phoebe's  mind.  "I'll  just  put  a 
fancy  towel  on  it  t'morra,"  she  promised.  "Ain't 
had  time  today." 

"Thank  you,"  murmured  Phcebe.  Certainly  the 
dressing-table  needed  something. 

Sophie  hung  about  for  a  little,  shifting  her 
weight  from  one  substantial  foot  to  the  other,  and 
making  offers  of  aid.  Could  she  unpack  Phoebe's 
jo-dandy  suit-case?  Phoebe  replied  with  a  polite, 
"No,  thank  you."  Could  she  unbutton  the  blue  linen 
dress?  ("My,  it's  pretty!")  Again,  "No,  thank 
you."  Then  the  windows  had  to  be  raised  a  trifle, 
and  lowered  again  because  of  the  rain.  There  were 
two  windows,  great,  high  affairs  against  which  tall 
green  blinds  were  fastened.  Next,  Sophie  dis- 
played the  clothes-closet,  and  hung  Phoebe's  serge 
coat  on  a  nail.  Last  of  all,  she  caught  up  the  two 
thick  pillows  on  the  wide  bed,  beat  them  as  a  baker 
beats  his  dough  (and  with  a  touch  of  something 


28  Phoebe 

almost  like  temper  J,  flung  them  down  into  place 
once  more,  and  grudgingly  sidled  to  the  door. 

Phoebe,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  hat 
still  in  hand,  made  a  pathetic  little  figure  that  ap- 
pealed to  Sophie's  heart.  "Ain't  there  anything  I 
can  do  ?"  she  inquired,  persisting. 

Phcebe  nodded.  "If — if  Daddy  will  please  come 
up  to  kiss  me  good-night,"  she  answered,  choking; 
"and — and  put  out  my  light." 

"I'll  tell  him,  you  betcha,"  declared  Sophie,  heart- 
ily. She  went  out,  turning  her  tousled  head  to  smile 
a  good-night. 

Phcebe  hurried  with  her  undressing.  There  was 
no  running  water  in  the  big  room,  and  she  could 
not  bring  herself  to  open  her  door  and  call  down, 
or  go  down,  in  quest  of  it.  Presently,  however, 
she  caught  sight  of  a  tall  pitcher  standing  in  a  wide, 
flowered  bowl,  both  atop  what  seemed  to  be  a  cup- 
board. She  went  to  peer  into  the  pitcher.  Sure 
enough !  The  pitcher  was  full  of  water;  and  Phcebe, 
using  all  the  strength  of  her  slender  arms,  heaved 
it  up  and  out  and  filled  the  bowl. 

"How  funny!"  she  marveled.  And  once  in  bed, 
with  a  single  electric  light  shining  full  into  her 
face  from  where  it  hung  on  a  cord  from  the  high 


Phoebe  29 

center  of  the  ceiling,  she  studied  the  room  itself, 
walls,  furniture,  curtains,  carpet.  "How  queer!" 
she  murmured,  over  and  over. 

"Well,  big  eyes !"  hailed  her  father,  when  he  came 
in. 

She  raised  on  an  elbow.  "Daddy,"  she  whis- 
pered, "isn't  it  so — so  different  here — everything. 
Why,  in  New  York  nobody  has  water-pitchers." 

Her  father  laughed.  "This  is  a  wonderful  old 
house,"  he  declared.  He  sat  down  beside  her. 

"It's  so  big !"  Phcebe  lay  back.  Her  hand  crept 
into  her  father's  and  she  looked  up  at  the  high  ceil- 
ing, with  its  covering  of  wall-paper  in  a  wavy,  wa- 
tered design. 

"You'll  get  used  to  it,"  he  promised,  "and  you'll 
like  it.  And  do  you  know  how  happy  Grandma 
is  to  have  you? — Uncle  John  and  Uncle  Bob,  too? 
I  can  see  they  love  my  little  girl  already." 

"And  they'll  love  Mother,"  added  Phcebe,  stout- 
ly. "You  just  wait  till  she  comes  back  well  again. 
Won't  they,  Daddy?" 

Her  father  rose,  and  the  smile  in  his  eyes  gave 
place  to  an  expression  of  sudden  pain.  "I  don't 
doubt  it,"  he  answered  hastily.  Then  leaning  to 
smooth  back  the  hair  from  her  brow,  "You're  tired, 


30  Phoebe 

aren't  you,  darling?  And  so  is  Daddy.  We'll 
say  good-night  now,  and  in  the  morning  there'll  be 
so  much  to  see,  and  do,  and  talk  about." 

"Yes,  sir." 

He  laid  his  cheek  against  hers,  so  babyish  still. 
"God  bless  my  daughter,"  he  said  tenderly. 

Her  arms  went  round  his  neck  then.  "Oh, 
Daddy,"  she  implored  brokenly,  "how  long  will  I 
be  away  from  mother?  Oh,  Daddy,  just  one  day 
and  I  miss  her  so !" 

He  soothed  her.  "I  can't  tell,  Phoebe,"  he  as- 
serted. "But  will  you  trust  me  to  do  the  best  that 
I  know  how?" 

With  her  wide  eyes  upon  him,  he  stood  at  the 
middle  of  the  room,  his  right  arm  raised  to  put 
out  the  electric  light.  He  pulled  at  the  cord,  and 
the  room  went  dark.  He  felt  his  way  to  the  door 
then,  and  went  out  with  a  last  affectionate  good- 
night which  Phoebe  answered  cheerily  enough. 

But  when  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  died  away  in 
the  hall,  she  stared  into  the  blackness,  seeing  him 
still  there  at  the  room's  center  with  his  arm  up- 
raised. And  her  loneliness  and  loss  she  told  silently 
to  that  picture  of  her  father  which  still  remained 
under  the  swinging  globe  in  the  blackness. 


Phoebe  31 

"I  want  Mother/'  she  said,  over  and  over.  "Oh, 
Daddy,  I  want  to  go  back  to  New  York,  to  Mother. 
Oh,  Daddy,  don't  leave  me  here  without  Mother." 
Then,  "Oh,  Mother,  if  I  could  only  be  with  you! 
Oh,  dear,  dear  Mother!" 

The  tears  came  then, — tears  of  weariness  as  well 
as  grief.  And  Phoebe,  curled  up  in  the  wide  bed,  her 
face  buried  in  the  curve  of  an  arm,  sobbed  herself 
to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  III 

A  FAIRY  bell  was  tinkling.  The  clear  tones  were 
part  of  a  dream  so  sweet,  though  afterwards  not 
remembered,  that  Phoebe  smiled  in  her  sleep.  The 
tinkling  grew  steadily  louder.  Phcebe  waked,  saw 
where  she  was,  and  raised  her  head  to  listen.  The 
bell  was  outside.  Persistent  and  musical,  its  ring- 
ing called  Phoebe  from  her  bed  to  a  window.  She 
peered  down  through  a  gap  in  the  storm  shutters. 

A  messenger  boy  on  a  bicycle  was  coming  up  the 
curving  drive  that  led  from  the  front  gate  to  the 
house.  The  rain  was  over.  The  sun  glinted  on  the 
metal  of  his  wheel.  He  disappeared  from  Phoebe's 
view  under  a  square,  flat  roof  that  was  one  story 
below  her  window. 

She  ran  to  put  on  her  shoes  and  stockings.  She 
splashed  her  face  with  the  icy  water  in  the  flowered 
bowl,  and  dressed  at  top  speed.  A  messenger  boy 
conveyed  only  one  thing  to  her:  a  telegram  from 
her  mother. 

She  was  right.     When  she  came  racing  down 
32 


Phoebe  33 

to  ask,  her  father  was  standing  by  the  front  door 
in  the  big  hall,  the  telegram  open  in  his  hand. 

He  did  not  permit  Phoebe  to  read  the  wire,  but 
put  it  away  in  the  leather  case  that  held  his  paper 
money.  And  he  did  not  reply  to  it  by  another  tele- 
gram when  the  messenger  boy  reminded  him  that 
there  was  an  answer. 

"I'll  write  your  mother,"  he  explained  to  Phoebe. 

Vfter  breakfast  he  sat  down  to  write.  That  first 
day  at  Grandma's,  Phoebe  learned  that  during  each 
week-day  morning  the  library  was  sacred  to  Uncle 
John.  So  Phoebe's  father  wrote  at  Grandma's  desk 
in  the  sitting-room,  with  Phoebe  writing  at  the  sew- 
ing-table close  by. 

Her  father's  letter  was  short.  His  face  was 
stern  as  he  wrote  it.  Then  he  paced  the  floor. 
Phoebe  had  often  seen  him  like  that  in  New  York. 
She  understood  that  he  was  frequently  worried  over 
business.  And  she  understood  business  worries, 
because  she  had  seen  several  worried  business  men 
in  the  "movies."  Usually  they  stood  over  curious 
machines  out  of  which  ran  a  long  narrow  strip 
of  paper.  And  as  a  rule  they  ended  by  commit- 
ting suicide  with  a  pistol  Phoebe  stole  anxious 
glances  toward  her  father  as  she  wrote. 


34  Phoebe 

"Darling,  darling  Mother,"  ran  her  letter,  "I  did 
as  you  said.  But  I  hope  you're  going  to  tell  me  to 
come  home  right  away.  It's  nice  here,  only  I  want 
you,  and  I  hope  I'll  be  back  before  Saturday.  Your 
loving  daughter,  Phcebe." 

It  was  a  short  letter,  since  it  occurred  to  Phoebe 
that  perhaps  a  little  of  her  father's  pacing  might 
be  due  to  impatience.  She  was  not  a  rapid  pen- 
man. 

Her  letter  finished  and  folded,  she  took  it  to  him. 
"Put  this  in  with  yours,  Daddy  ?"  she  asked. 

He  stared  down  at  her,  not  answering  for  a  mo- 
ment. Then,  "Yes,"  he  said,  "of  course."  He 
added  her  letter  to  his,  but  he  did  not  seal  the  en- 
velope. 

When  he  was  gone,  Phoebe  sat  down  to  wait. 
There  were  things  to  be  seen  outside — a  barn  to 
explore,  and  a  chicken-coop.  Also,  Grandma  had 
promised  to  show  Phoebe  over  the  house.  But 
Phcebe  was  not  especially  interested.  What  she 
wanted  most  was  the  return  of  her  father,  that  she 
might  hear  the  hour  of  her  return  to  New  York. 

Sophie  came  in  to  set  the  living-room  to  rights. 
On  better  acquaintance,  there  was  something  ex- 


Phoebe  35 

ceedmgly  attractive  about  Sophie.  Her  hair  was 
so  bright,  her  eyes  were  roguish.  She  had  dimples. 
In  the  matter  of  dress,  however,  she  entirely  lacked 
that  black-and-white  smartness  which  Sally,  Moth- 
er's colored  maid,  possessed.  Remembering  Sally 
gave  Phcebe  a  happy  thought:  Here  was  the  one, 
of  all  those  in  the  big  house,  who  would  be  a  pleas- 
ant companion  to  the  local  "movies." 

"Is  there  a  moving-picture  theatre  in  this  town  ?" 
she  asked. 

"Is  there !"  cried  Sophie.  "I  should  say !  Many 
as  nine,  I  guess." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad !" 

"Mm."  Sophie  looked  doubtful,  somehow.  But 
she  kept  her  own  counsel.  "I  seen  a  grand  picture 
last  night,"  she  confided. 

"Did  you !    Oh,  tell  me  about  it !" 

First,  for  some  reason,  Sophie  went  to  the  door 
and  looked  out  into  the  hall.  Then,  launching  into 
her  story,  she  dropped  her  voice.  "It  was  all  about 
awful  rich  folks,"  she  began.  "There  was  a  girl, 
and  you  seen  her  at  the  start  in  her  papa's  viller. 
He's  so  rich  that  his  hired  men  wear  knee  pants." 

The  story  grew.  With  it  mounted  Phoebe's  '  '<•' 
terest  and  Sophie's  enthusiasm.  And  when  F 


36  Phoebe 

was  done,  Phoebe  in  turn  remembered  a  picture  full 
of  high  adventure  and  love  that  put  danger  to 
scorn. 

"The  horse  jumped  off  a  fast  train,"  she  related. 
"And  the  brave  young  cow-boy  fell  to  the  water 
below.  But  horses  can  swim.  This  horse  made  for 
shore,  and  the  cow-boy  swam  along  beside  him. 
The  waves  were  high — it  must  have  been  the  ocean. 
Now  you  saw  him,  now  you  didn't.  But  he  got 
closer  and  closer  to  land.  Pretty  soon  the  horse 
touched  bottom.  You  saw  the  cow-boy  was  safe. 
When  there,  on  the  beach,  stood  the  villain — with 
a  gun  in  his  hands!" 

"Phoebe."  Her  father  had  entered.  He  was 
frowning  at  Sophie. 

"Daddy!"     Phcebe  ran  to  him.     "Oh,  there  are 
nine  movie  theatres  in  this  town,  Sophie  says.    Oh 
Daddy,  I'd  like  to  go  to  one  this  afternoon." 

"But,  Uncle  John,  Phoebe/'  said  her  father. 

She  did  not  understand.  "Couldn't  Sophie  take 
me?" 

"Phoebe,  your  Uncle  John  is  a  clergyman,"  ex- 
plained her  father,  his  voice  grave.     "If  his  niece 
to  the  movies,  that  looks  as  if  he  approves  of 
.    And  he  doesn't." 


Phoebe  37 

Phoebe  stared,  aghast.  "But  Mother  took  me 
hundreds  of  times,"  she  reminded. 

"Not  in  this  town,  dear." 

"But  can't  I  even  see  travel  pictures?" 

"I'm  sorry." 

Phoebe  sat  down,  dumbfounded.  Sophie  went 
out  quietly,  without  lifting  those  roguish  eyes. 

Phoebe's  father  came  over  to  his  daughter,  and 
rested  a  gentle  hand  on  her  shoulder.  "In  this 
house,"  he  said,  speaking  very  low,  "the  less  my 
little  girl  says  about  the  movies  the  better." 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  Phcebe,  dutifully. 

But  rebellion  came  into  her  heart  that  first  morn- 
ing. And  thereafter  her  Uncle  John,  rector  of 
the  town's  most  exclusive  church,  and  undeniably 
a  most  devout  man,  was  to  play  the  role  of  villain 
in  the  drama  which  Phcebe  felt  that  she  was  living. 

The  subject  of  moving-pictures  was  forgotten 
temporarily  when  more  fairy  tinklings  announced 
the  arrival,  about  noon,  of  a  second  messenger  boy. 
He  had  still  another  telegram  from  Phoebe's  mother. 
And  this  time  he  waited  while  Phoebe's  father  wrote 
out  an  answer.  Then  he  went  tinkling  away. 

"Is  Mother  anxious  about  us,  Daddy?"  Phoebe 
wanted  to  know. 


38  Phoebe 

"Yes,  darling.  But  we're  all  right  here,  aren't 
we? — for  a  little  while." 

"I  guess  so,"  said  Phoebe,  without  enthusiasm. 

A  third  telegram  came  later  on  in  the  day,  and 
a  fourth  that  evening.  The  day  following  brought 
others.  More  arrived  the  day  after  that.  Phoebe's 
father  answered  some  of  them  in  kind,  others  by 
letter.  After  the  arrival  of  the  first  one  he  had 
taken  on  something  of  a  resigned,  almost  cheerful, 
air,  and  had  explained,  each  message  to  Phoebe,  de- 
claring laughingly  that  her  mother  would  burn  up 
the  telegraph  wires ;  while  Phcebe,  with  her  numer- 
ous letters,  would  put  a  terrible  strain  on  the  local 
post-office. 

Yet  for  all  his  gaiety,  Phoebe  sensed  that  there 
was  something  about  it  all  which  she  did  not  under- 
stand. For  one  thing,  why  did  her  mother  not 
write  to  her? 

"Has  Mother  written  you  ?"  she  asked  her  father. 

"Yes."  But  though  he  searched  his  pockets  and 
the  desk,  he  failed  to  locate  the  lettei.  Also  he 
was  not  able  to  remember  much  that  the  letter  con- 
tained. 

"Of  course,"  conceded  Phoebe,  "Mother  isn't 
a  very  good  letter-writer.  Whenever  you  were 


Phoebe  39 

away,  she'd  say,  'You  write  to  Daddy.'  And  I 
would.  Darling  Mother!  She  never  liked  to  sit 
down  and  go  at  it.  She  just  seems  to  hate  ink." 

"That's  why  she  wires,"  declared  Phoebe's  father. 
"It's  easy  to  get  off  a  telegram. — Oh,  well." 

But  Phoebe  kept  on  puzzling  over  it  all.  When 
the  telegrams  stopped,  her  father  admitted  that  let- 
ters kept  on  arriving.  But  he  never  showed  any 
of  them  to  Phoebe,  or  read  to  her  from  them.  He 
explained  that  they  were  about  very  private  mat- 
ters. "What?"  Phoebe  asked  herself. 

Yes,  there  was  something  about  all  this  telegraph- 
ing and  letter-writing  which  she  did  not  under- 
stand. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THERE  was  something  else  which  Phoebe  did  not 
understand.  Walking,  mittened  and  warmly  dad, 
over  the  snow-crusted  half-acre  of  Grandma's  gar- 
den, she  gave  herself  up  to  conjecture.  Or  in  the 
sitting-room,  with  Grandma  seated  nearby,  sewing, 
she  puzzled  her  small  head.  And  when  she  drove 
with  Uncle  Bob  into  the  country,  through  lanes  of 
naked  trees  that  edged  bare  fields,  she  studied  his 
big,  good-natured  face  and  wished  that  she  might 
open  her  heart  and  ask  him  all  about  it. 

That  something  else  which  she  did  not  under" 
stand  was  this :  a  strict  watch  was  being  kept  upon 
her — almost  as  if  in  fear! 

Why?  Did  they,  her  father,  and  her  uncles  and 
grandmother,  think  that,  missing  her  mother,  she 
might  run  away  to  New  York  ?  Or  was  it  that  they 
guessed  how  terribly  she  longed  for  her  mother, 
and  made  sure  that  she  should  never  be  left  alone? 
But — if  they  were  sparing  her  loneliness,  why  was 

she  not  sent  to  school  every  day,  like  other  chil- 

40 


Phoebe  41 

dren  whom  she  saw  clattering  along  the  sidewalk 
that  ran  just  outside  the  high  hedge?  Or  why 
were  children  not  asked  into  the  big  Blair  garden 
to  play  with  her?  And  why  did  Daddy,  who  for 
years  had  been  so  busy  with  his  work  that  he  could 
seldom  give  her  more  than  a  very  occasional  after- 
noon, why  was  he  putting  aside  all  work  now  in 
order  to  stay  there  with  her — particularly  since 
Mother,  ill  and  alone,  assuredly  needed  him  if  she 
could  not  have  Phcebe? 

There  were  other  curious  things.  She  was  never 
permitted  to  go  downtown  unless  her  father  accom- 
panied her.  She  was  never  allowed  to  drive  alone 
with  Grandma.  She  might  not  go  to  Sunday  school 
or  church  with  Uncle  John.  And  at  last  she  was 
able  to  see  that  a  certain  iron  rule  obtained  con- 
cerning her  movements :  she  could  not  play  in  the 
garden  unless  Uncle  Bob  or  Daddy  was  home ;  and 
she  could  not  leave  Grandma's  to  walk  or  drive 
unless  her  father  or  an  uncle  was  in  the  surrey. 

It  was  all  very  puzzling. 

When  people  called,  Phoebe  did  not  meet  them. 
Sophie,  suddenly  grown  enthusiastic  over  some  ordi- 
nary household  matter,  hurried  her  upstairs,  or 
down  cellar,  as  the  case  might  be;  or  took  her  egg- 


42  Phoebe 

hunting  to  the  tall  frame  chicken-house  standing  in 
the  back  lot. 

If  the  attic  received  them,  Sophie  kept  a  watch 
upon  the  garden  from  the  tiny  attic  window;  and 
as  soon  as  the  visitors  took  their  leave,  Sophie's 
interest  in  the  top  of  the  house  promptly  melted,  and 
Phoebe  was  coaxed  away  from  the  fascinating  boxes 
and  barrels  that  filled  the  room,  and  led  down  to  the 
sitting-room  and  Grandma.  If  on  the  approach  of 
callers  Sophie  found  pressing  reasons  for  going 
down  into  the  cellar,  and  taking  Phoebe  along,  the 
watch  that  was  set  on  the  attic  window  was  trans- 
ferred to  the  ceiling  of  the  cellar.  For  Sophie  kept 
turning  her  face  up  at  it  inquiringly,  kept  an  ear 
cocked  toward  that  corner  of  it  which  was  under 
the  wide  entrance  hall.  And  when  a  dull  thump  an- 
nounced the  shutting  of  the  front  door,  Sophie 
invariably  found  herself  ready  and  eager  to  leave 
the  cellar  for  other  duties  higher  up. 

"Why  don't  I  ever  meet  anybody?"  Phoebe  pon- 
dered. 

Her  mind  dwelt  on  certain  dark,  dramatic  pos- 
sibilities. In  New  York,  how  freely  had  she  tasted 
of  that — to  her — most  perfect  of  all  joys — the  mov- 
ing-pictures. She  went  to  some  temple  of  the  silent 


Phoebe  43 

play  three  or  four  times  every  week — sometimes 
with  her  mother,  but  more  often  with  her  mother's 
black  maid.  Oh,  the  never  lessening  lure  of  the 
film  dramas!  The  grip  of  them!  The  beauty  of 
their  heroines!  The  masterful,  handsome  heroes  in 
them!  The  villains  always  foiled!  The  maidens 
consistently  saved!  Oh,  Dustin  Farnum!  Oh, 
lovely,  dainty  Marguerite  Clark!  Oh,  gun-hand- 
ling, stern  and  adorable  William  S.  Hart! 

And  now,  her  imagination  trained,  Phoebe,  as  she 
considered  conditions  as  she  saw  them,  asked  her- 
self if,  perhaps,  Daddy  and  the  others  were  not 
in  fear  of  enemies!  of  kidnappers!  of  Mexican 
bandits!  And  this  new  hazard  soon  came  to  seem 
the  logical,  then  the  probable,  then  the  true  thing. 

From  a  cautious  attitude,  she  changed  to  actual 
fear.  She  began  each  day  with  a  careful  look  from 
her  windows,  scanning  the  grounds,  the  hedges. 
Once  in  the  open,  she  looked  for  foot-prints  on  the 
walks  leading  up  to  the  house.  She  was  always 
on  the  alert.  And  a  new  look  came  into  the  gray- 
blue  eyes — a  look  of  anxious  questioning. 

It  was  bad  enough  in  the  daytime.  But  at  night 
she  suffered,  and  dreaded  the  going-down  of  the 
sun.  Toward  evening  she  set  herself  one  task :  the 


44  Phoebe 

lowering  of  her  curtains,  but  more  particularly  the 
curtains  of  the  sitting-room — against  the  peering  in 
of  faces!  As  twilight  came,  it  seemed  to  her  that 
the  big  house  gathered  into  itself  more  dwellers 
than  just  the  half-dozen  of  which  she  was  one. 
They  were  up  in  the  attic,  these  strange  visitors, 
or  down  in  the  cellar,  or  in  the  closet  under  the 
stairs.  In  her  own  room  at  bedtime,  having  glanced 
under  her  four-poster,  she  locked  her  clothes-closet 
against  Something  which  she  felt  was  lurking  there- 
in. While  before  she  fell  asleep,  or  if  she  waked 
in  the  still  hours,  she  held  her  breath  and  listened 
— listened.  Sometimes  there  were  snappings ;  some- 
times softer  sounds  came  to  her,  like  the  creeping 
of  stealthy  feet.  In  the  blackness,  white  shapes 
sprang  up  before  even  her  tight-closed  eyes — sprang 
up,  wavered,  swelled,  melted.  She  covered  her  head. 
Never  was  one  small  hand  left  free,  lest  it  be  taken 
by  one  unknown  and  clammy ! 

How  she  longed  to  find  out  about  it  all,  to  tell 
some  one  all  her  terrors.  Often  at  night  she  de- 
termined to  go  boldly  to  her  father  the  very  next 
morning.  Just  as  often  the  light  of  the  new  day 
withered  her  resolution.  "If  only  Mother  wrere 
here,"  she  told  herself.  It  was  easy  to  confide  any- 


Phoebe  45 

thing  to  Mother.  But  she  shrank  from  opening 
her  heart  to  her  father.  What  she  wanted  to  know 
he  knew,  and  could  tell  her  if  he  wanted  her  to 
know. 

Then  she  thought  of  Sophie.  Uncle  Bob  was  not 
a  remote  possibility,  but  Sophie  was  even  more  ap- 
proachable. Phcebe  broached  her  subject  diplomati- 
cally. "I  don't  see  many  people  here,  do  I?"  she 
inquired. 

It  was  so  casual  that  Sophie  had  no  inkling 
of  what  lay  beneath  the  innocent  question.  "You 
don't  lose  much,  neither,"  was  the  grunted  re- 
joinder. (Sophie  held  local  society  in  high  dis- 
dain.) 

"I  knew  lots  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  New 
York,"  Phcebe  went  on.  "Because  Mother  has  so 
many  friends — beautiful  ladies,  that  wear  beautiful 
clothes.  And  gentlemen  who  are  rich,  and  have 
cars,  and  bring  me  candy  and  things." 

Sophie  was  keenly  interested.  They  were  in 
Phcebe's  own  room  on  this  particular  occasion 
(Phoebe  feeling  instinctively  that  she  could  get  bet- 
ter results  on  her  own  territory),  and  Sophie  was 
so  eager  to  hear  about  New  York,  and  the  apart- 
ment, and  the  ladies,  and  the  men,  that  she  sat  down. 


46  Phoebe 

and  asked  many  questions,  only  stopping,  now  and 
then,  to  go  to  the  door  to  look  out. 

And  Phoebe,  nothing  loath,  answered  every  ques- 
tion— and  more.  So  that  Sophie  was  given  a  very 
fair  and  truthful  account  of  life  in  the  metropoli- 
tan apartment — that  is,  of  the  life  that  Phoebe  saw 
between  her  early  waking  and  her  early  bed-time. 

At  the  end  of  this  long  talk,  Sophie  was  sum- 
moned downstairs  by  Grandma's  hand-bell,  a  round, 
squat  affair,  like  a  school-teacher's  bell,  which  stood 
on  a  little  table  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  And  a 
few  minutes  later,  Phoebe,  who  had  trailed  down 
after  the  maid,  came  upon  her  in  the  library.  Sophie 
was  standing  close  to  Grandma,  and  talking  very 
low;  and  when  Phcebe  entered,  the  two  moved 
apart,  somewhat  hastily,  and  Sophie  smiled  a  con- 
scious smile,  and  looked  a  little  guilty,  and  began 
to  talk  more  loudly  than  was  necessary  about  her 
duties. 

In  that  moment,  Phoebe  realized  herself  cut  off 
from  the  one  being  in  that  big  house  of  grown- 
ups with  whom  she  had  been  making  ready  to  share 
her  little  confidences.  For  now  it  was  plain  that 
Sophie  could  not  be  trusted. 

One  thought  did  not  come  to  Phoebe,  namely, 


Phoebe  47 

that  the  strict  watch  kept  upon  her  had  anything 
to  do  with  her  mother. 

If  the  thought  had  occurred,  whom  could  she 
have  asked?  From  the  very  first  night  of  her  ar- 
rival Phcebe  had  discovered  that  Grandma — dear, 
gentle  Grandma,  with  her  mild  old  eyes  and  her 
trembling  head — did  not  care  to  talk  to  Phoebe 
about  Mother.  Neither  did  Uncle  Bob,  who  was 
always  so  ready  to  chatter  boyishly  about  all  other 
matters  that  seemed  of  interest  to  his  niece.  As 
for  Uncle  John,  she  never  considered  mentioning 
Mother  to  him.  For  one  day  she  had  left  Mother's 
photograph  on  the  mantelpiece  in  the  sitting  room, 
and  coming  for  it,  she  had  seen  Uncle  John  with 
the  picture  in  his  hand.  When  he  discovered  Phoebe 
beside  him,  he  stared  down  at  her,  and  the  look  in 
his  eyes  was  not  good  to  see.  His  lips  were  drawn 
back  from  his  shut  teeth,  too, — as  if  he  were  en- 
raged at  the  photograph.  He  almost  flung  it  down, 
and  went  out  with  no  word. 

Phoebe  understood.  Mother  had  never  liked 
these  three  who  belonged  to  Daddy.  Naturally, 
these  three  did  not  like  Mother.  Even  for  a  girl  of 
fourteen  that  was  simple  enough. 

And  Daddy — Phoebe  understood  that  if  she  men- 


48  Phoebe 

tioned  her  mother  to  her  father,  the  smile  on  his 
face,  the  light  in  his  eyes,  went  instantly.  And 
understanding  that,  she  had  come  to  speak  seldom  to 
him  of  the  one  whose  absence  was  a  constant  hurt, 
an  ache,  a  burden. 

And  now  Sophie  might  not  be  taken  into  her  con- 
fidence. For  Sophie,  voice  lowered  and  tousled 
head  bobbing  close  to  Grandma's,  had  been  telling 
over  all  that  Phoebe  had  told  to  her.  Yes,  telling  it 
all  over — and  what  else?  For  Grandma's  face,  as 
Phoebe  caught  sight  of  it,  was  pale  and  stern,  and 
her  eyes  were  wide  open  and  angry  behind  the 
round  panes  of  her  gold-rimmed  spectacles. 

Thereafter  Phoebe  drew  more  and  more  into  her- 
self. And  what  she  had  to  confide,  she  confided 
to  the  big  old  doll  that  had  come  with  her  from 
New  York,  packed  between  two  middy-blouses  in 
the  suit-case.  The  big  old  doll  slept  with  her, 
too,  in  the  wide  bed.  And  for  added  comfort, 
Phoebe  put  the  photograph  under  her  pillow  of 
nights.  When  the  light  was  out  and  the  covers 
over  her  head,  she  drew  the  photograph  forth  and 
laid  her  cheek  upon  it.  Cool  it  was,  and  smooth, 
like  the  open  palm  of  her  mother's  hand.  And 
held  close,  thus,  it  gave  forth  a  faint  perfume — 


Phoebe  49 

a  perfume  which  Mother  had  used — which  brought 
Mother  near  in  the  dark  of  the  big  room — which 
brought  the  tears,  too,  the  wearisome  sobbing  that 
at  last,  in  turn,  brought  sleep;  and  sleep  brought 
dreams — dear  dreams  of  that  loved,  perfumed  pres- 
ence that  now,  at  times,  seemed  scarcely  more  than 
the  figure  in  a  dream. 

Phcebe  had  left  New  York  just  after  the  Christ- 
mas holidays — holidays  packed  with  joys  as  they 
had  never  before  been  packed.  For  apart  from 
the  usual  tree  with  the  usual  gifts,  there  had  been 
other  things — a  horseback  ride  on  a  horse  that  be- 
longed to  one  of  Mother's  men  friends;  a  score 
of  drives  in  a  wonderful  limousine  that  was  all 
blue  without  and  a  soft  sand-color  within,  and  ran 
as  if  shod  with  velvet,  though  with  the  strength, 
Mother  said,  of  eighty  horses!  And  there  was  a 
symphony  concert,  too,  in  Carnegie  Hall,  to  which 
whole  flocks  of  children  came,  and  to  which  Phcebe 
wore  her  very  best  of  all  white  dresses;  and  there 
was  an  afternoon  at  the  Opera,  where  Mother  had 
wonderful  seats  in  a  box  which  Phcebe  understood 
cost  a  fortune,  and  Phcebe  saw  a  great  curtain  lift 
to  display  castles,  and  forests,  soldiers,  knights  and 
princesses.  And,  of  course,  there  was  that  su- 


5O  Phoebe 

premest  of  joys — the  "movies."  In  the  holidays 
the  "movies"  were  an  everyday  delight. 

How  she  longed  for  them ! 

However,  in  the  big  house  she  spoke  of  them 
only  to  Sophie,  and  then  in  undertones.  But  in 
this  matter,  as  in  her  separation  from  her  mother, 
she  was  not  to  any  degree  submissive.  Her  silence 
indicated  that  she  was;  but  she  was  merely  biding 
her  time. 

It  was  in  January  that  Phcebe  came  to  the  big 
house.  And  the  something  which  she  did  not  un- 
derstand— that  being  watched,  and  passed  from 
hand  to  hand,  and  kept  apart  from  other  children, 
and  out  of  school — obtained  through  all  the  rest  of 
the  first  month  of  the  new  year,  and  through  Feb- 
ruary and  into  March. 

Then,  one  day,  a  sudden  change!  A  quick,  be- 
wildering, inexplicable,  happy  change! 

First  of  all,  to  herald  it,  Uncle  John  telephoned 
a  Miss  Simpson,  who  conducted  a  school  for  young 
ladies,  and  held  a  long  and  animated  conversation 
with  that  lady — a  conversation  in  which  "my  niece" 
and  "Phcebe"  figured  frequently.  Next,  Daddy  ap- 
peared with  an  unclouded  face,  and  sat  down  at 
the  cottage-organ  in  Grandma's  sitting-room  and 


Phoebe  51 

played  a  little,  and  sang  a  song  or  two,  Uncle  Bob 
joining  in.  Next,  wonder  of  wonders,  Phoebe  was 
sent  to  the  nearest  drug-store  two  blocks  away,  to 
get  something  for  Grandma — and  she  was  allowed 
to  go  by  herself! 

What  had  happened? 

She  did  not  find  out. 

This  important  news,  however,  she  gleaned  from 
her  father:  Mother  was  now  in  New  York  no 
longer;  she  had  gone  West. 

"Isn't  Mother  any  better,  Daddy?"  she  asked 
anxiously. 

"We  hope  she  will  be,"  he  answered. 

"Did  you  have  a  letter?"  Phoebe  wanted  to 
know. 

"Yes,  I  got  the  news  in  a  letter." 

A  wave  of  scarlet  swept  up  Phoebe's  young  throat 
and  bathed  the  earnest  little  face.  News  of  Mother 
— from  Mother!  It  choked  her,  it  was  all  so  won- 
derful. For  had  not  Mother,  for  a  long  time,  failed 
to  send  any  word  to  her  and  Daddy? 

"Oh,  a  letter?"  breathed  Phoebe,  and  there  was 
sweet  entreaty  in  the  young  eyes. 

Her  father  began  to  thrust  his  hands  into  his 
pockets,  as  if  searching,  just  as  he  had  done  on 


52  Phoebe 

occasions  before.  Finding  no  letter,  he  slapped 
each  pocket  with  the  flat  of  a  hand.  He  had 
colored,  too.  And  his  forehead  was  puckered,  and 
he  blinked. 

"Can't  you  find  it?"  breathed  Phoebe. 

"Well!— Thought  I  had  it.  Mm!  Sorry. 
Must've  laid  it  down  somewhere." 

He  did  not  find  the  letter.  But  Phcebe  was  com- 
forted by  knowing  it  had  come.  Mother  was  West, 
in  a  city  built  high  above  the  sea.  There  she  would 
improve — speedily.  So  the  best  thing  to  do  was  to 
wait  patiently.  And  while  she  waited — go  to 
school ! 

The  school  was  Miss  Simpson's.  It  was  not  a 
school,  really,  as  Phcebe  discovered  the  first  day. 
It  was  a  house — a  house  very  like  Grandma's. 

Of  course  there  were  differences.  At  Miss  Simp- 
son's, for  instance,  the  cellar  held  a  great  iron 
monster-thing  with  which  Phcebe  felt  on  friendly 
terms.  This  monster  was  the  boiler,  which  sent 
steam-heat  to  all  the  various  rooms. 

There  was  no  boiler  in  Grandma's  cellar,  which 
was  broad  and  high,  brick-floored,  and  walled  with 
cobble-stones.  It  contained,  of  course,  a  coal-bin. 
And  there  were  other  bins  that  Miss  Simpson's 


Phoebe  53 

cellar  could  not  boast — bins  for  potatoes,  and  tur- 
nips. And  Miss  Simpson  had  no  shelves  full  of 
pickles  and  preserves,  and  shining  cans  of  lard, 
no  beams  from  which  hung  corn  and  onions  and 
peppers,  and  hams  in  their  sacking,  and  smoked 
bacon  in  a  wrapping  of  paraffine-paper.  She  had 
no  pumpkins  piled  yellowly  in  one  corner,  with 
green  cabbages  close  beside.  And  where  were  her 
pork  barrels  ranged  in  a  row,  topped  by  tubs  hold- 
ing the  eggs  that  had  been  "put  down,"  and  the 
winter  supply  of  butter? 

But  Miss  Simpson's  cellar  was  much  nicer  than 
Grandma's.  For  it  was  just  like  a  New  York  base- 
ment! 

Elsewhere,  too,  Phoebe  felt  the  school  to  be  in- 
finitely more  attractive  than  the  Blair  home.  It 
was  new,  it  was  (Miss  Simpson  herself  said  it) 
modern,  and  it  was  built  all  of  brick.  Genevieve 
Finnegan,  a  girl  of  Phcebe's  own  age,  declared  that 
Miss  Simpson's  house  was  stylish;  while  a  teacher, 
touching  on  architecture  one  day,  proudly  cata- 
logued it  as  "very  English." 

Phoebe  did  not  understand  in  just  what  way  the 
school  was  "very  English,"  but  she  did  come  to 
,  through  Genevieve,  that  whatever  very  Eng- 


54  Phoebe 

lish  might  be,  it  was  something  much  to  be  desired 
for  any  house.  As  for  Grandma's  residence,  well, 
Genevieve  was  politely  scornful. 

Phcebe  readily  understood  why. 

The  Blair  house  had  gone  up  when  Uncle  John 
was  a  baby,  and  was  typical,  in  its  architecture,  of 
the  best  suburban  houses  of  those  remote  times. 
It  had  towers — two  of  them — round  and  shingled, 
with  points  that  held  lightning-rods.  It  had  fancy 
cornices,  too,  and  trimmings  that  were  considered 
marvels  of  beauty  when  they  were  new.  Now 
Genevieve  referred  to  them  as  "ginger  bread."  And 
it  had  green  blinds  on  its  many  windows — blinds 
that  had  rattled  in  all  the  storms  of  the  passing 
years,  but  were  still  intact,  testifying  to  the  wood 
and  workmanship  of  that  period  of  the  long-ago. 

But  the  house  was  "old-fashioned."  There  was 
no  concealing  it — everybody  in  town  knew  it. 
Once,  in  the  days  when  the  Blair  house  was  new, 
it  had  stood  all  to  itself,  in  the  center  of  what  was 
known  as  Blair  Farm.  The  farm  had  been  cut  up 
into  lots  later  on.  Then  the  big,  lonely  house 
had,  as  it  were,  drawn  the  town  lovingly  to  it, 
and  had  taken  its  place  as  a  sort  of  landmark,  rear- 
ing its  unfashionable  turrets  among  very  up-to-date 


Phoebe  55 

structures.  Genevieve  and  her  mamma,  and  her 
papa,  together  with  five  servants,  were  dwellers  in 
one  of  these  structures.  Genevieve  referred  to  her 
home — carelessly — as  a  "chalet." 

There  was  nothing  to  be  said  in  criticism  of  Miss 
Simpson's — even  though  it  was  not  a  chalet.  Gene- 
vieve declared,  and  other  girls  upheld  her,  that 
Miss  Simpson's  was  so  unusually  splendid  in  the 
way  of  interior  woods,  marbled  entrance-hall,  fres- 
coed ceilings  and  the  like  that  the  man  who  had 
put  it  up  had  "gone  broke."  Genevieve  said  it 
boastfully.  How  much  further,  indeed,  could  any 
man  go  who  was  putting  up  a  house  than  to  go 
broke? 

Phcebe  was  convinced. 

She  was  quick  to  admit  to  herself  that,  interiorly 
at  least,  there  was  much  to  be  desired  in  the  way 
of  improvements  at  Grandma's.  If  the  big  Blair 
house  was  not  comparable  to  Miss  Simpson's,  it 
was  also  far  from  coming  up  to  the  standard  of 
apartments  in  New  York.  For  example,  consider 
the  wall-paper  on  Grandma's  ceilings,  and  the  col- 
ored glass  in  certain  of  Grandma's  doors.  Crayon 
reproductions  of  family  photographs  were  not  at 
all  "the  thing,"  Phcebe  knew  and  Genevieve  averred. 


56  Phoebe 

Neither  were  wax  flowers  modish — and  Grandma 
had  so  many  frames  of  them!  And  then  there 
was  that  little  item  of  lace  curtains.  Phoebe  did 
not  have  to  be  told  that  nobody  who  really  knew 
would,  in  these  later  and  wiser  times,  go  out  and 
buy  lace  curtains. 

Phoebe  did  not  see  the  upper  floors  of  Miss 
Simpson's;  but  the  street  floor  was  proof  of  what 
might  be  expected  at  the  top  of  the  graceful  stair- 
way. How  beautiful  the  great  drawing-room  was, 
with  its  satin-wood  walls,  carved  and  bracketed  for 
silk-covered  shades.  How  deep  the  great  rugs 
were  in  all  the  big  down-stairs  rooms !  And  there 
were  velvet  couches  on  either  side  of  the  library 
fire,  and  here,  before  a  glowing  hearth,  Miss  Simp- 
son gathered  her  girls  of  an  afternoon  for  the 
function  of  tea.  The  maid  who  served  the  tea 
wore  a  cap.  And  on  no  account  did  she  ever  lift 
her  eyes  to  smile,  as  Sophie  smiled.  What  was 
most  important,  this  maid  referred  to  Miss  Simp- 
son as  "Madam."  And  Phoebe  knew  this  was  most 
proper  and  desirable.  For  Sally  had  always  called 
Mother  "Madam."  If  Phoebe  had  not  known  about 
all  this,  Genevieve  would  have  been  the  one  to  teach 


Phoebe  57 

her,  Genevieve  being  a  stickler  for  all  that  was 
proper  and — fashionable. 

Phoebe  came  to  look  upon  the  tea- function  at 
Miss  Simpson's  as  a  rare  privilege.  This  was  be- 
cause only  a  certain  very  small  group  of  girls  in 
town  might  share  the  opportunity  of  attending  that 
daily  function.  For  Miss  Simpson's  School,  as 
Uncle  John  had  said,  and  as  had  been  borne  out 
architecturally  and  otherwise— Miss  Simpson's 
School  was  most  exclusive. 

Freed  from  long  weeks  of  loneliness,  Phcebe  wel- 
comed the  School  with  delight.  She  felt  it  rightful 
that  she  should  be  there,  too.  For  was  not  her 
Uncle  John  the  most  fashionable  rector  in  town? 
Was  not  her  Uncle  Bob  a  Judge? — that  he  was 
Judge  of  the  new  Court  for  Juveniles  subtracting 
only  a  little  from  the  honors  that  were  his.  And 
was  not  her  father,  her  dear,  gallant,  handsome 
father,  a  mining-engineer?  And  were  not  mining- 
engineers  in  the  same  class,  socially,  as  doctors, 
and  lawyers,  and  bankers,  and  mayors  of  the  city? 
Genevieve  said  so. 

So  Phcebe,  welcomed  to  the  School  by  Miss  Simp- 
son, received  into  the  exclusive  tea  circle  before 
that  library  fire,  and  made  one  of  a  little  "set"  of 


58  Phoebe 

pupils  out  of  well-to-do  families — Phoebe  began  to 
feel  at  home  in  this  small,  new  city,  to  fret  less 
for  the  dear  mother  who  was  taking  such  a  long 
time  to  get  well,  and  to  put  behind  her  all  thoughts 
of  the  something  which  she  had  not  understood. 
In  fact,  Phcebe  was  coming  to  be  almost  patient, 
almost  happy  and  contented  once  more. 

And  then,  one  morning,  with  the  same  sudden- 
ness that  had  found  her  free  of  restraint  and  be- 
wildering conjectures,  there  came  another  change. 

How  it  came  she  scarcely  knew.  Why  it  came, 
she  had  no  idea.  It  was  there — all  about  her — like 
the  air;  no,  more  like  an  obscuring  smoke.  She 
could  not  see  what  was  wrong.  But  she  could  feel. 
Phcebe  curtsied  to  Miss  Simpson  and  that  august 
principal  did  not  smile.  And  there  were  other 
signs — signs  that  struck  a  chill  to  Phoebe's  tender 
heart. 

Phcebe  did  not  ask  any  questions.  New  Year's 
Day  had  ended  a  wonderful  life.  This  new  life 
was  baffling;  full  of  cruel  blows.  "Submit,"  coun- 
seled a  still,  small  voice;  "submit,  and  wait  for 
Mother." 

The  hot  tears  stung  the  gray-blue  eyes.     Phcebe 


Phoebe  59 

blinked  them  away,  opened  her  Physical  Geography, 
and  smiled  bravely  at  a  picture  of  a  chimpanzee 
climbing  a  cocoanut  tree. 

Phoebe  smiled — but  she  awaited  a  new  blow. 


CHAPTER  V 

PHCEBE  was  very  busy.  With  the  wet  half  of 
an  old  handkerchief,  she  wiped  off  the  top  of  her 
own  desk  most  painstakingly ;  next,  having  dried  it 
with  the  bit  of  worn  linen  kept  in  reserve,  she 
cleared  out  the  shelf  of  the  desk,  dusting  each  book 
as  she  did  so,  and  then  washed  and  dried  the  shelf. 
Last  of  all,  she  took  out  her  inkwell,  cleaned  the 
lid  of  it,  refilled  it  carefully  from  a  nearby  bottle, 
and  replaced  it  without  the  loss  of  a  purple  drop. 
All  the  while  she  hummed  a  little,  and  was  so  in- 
tent upon  her  work  that  she  seemed  not  to  know  that 
the  other  girls  were  leaving  one  by  one — until  no 
one  was  left  with  her  in  the  high  room,  which  once 
had  been  a  music-room,  save  a  teacher,  seated 
quietly  at  her  desk. 

But  Phcebe,  despite  all  her  earnest  washing-up, 
had  only  been  killing  time.  She  had  not  glanced 
up  from  her  work  because  she  did  not  care  to  meet 
the  eyes,  or  note  the  whispers,  of  the  other  girls. 

She  would  not  pass  out  with  them  across  the  ter- 

60 


Phoebe  61 

race  which  fronted  the  big  house  for  fear  they  might 
not  walk  with  her,  or  call  a  pleasant  good-bye.  She 
was  waiting,  busy  meanwhile,  until  she  could  leave 
Miss  Simpson's  alone. 

The  teacher,  setting  her  own  desk  to  rights,  cast 
an  inquiring  look  at  Phcebe  every  now  and  then. 
When  the  last  fellow-pupil  was  gone,  Phcebe  rose 
and  came  forward  to  the  platform,  a  little  timidly. 
In  front  of  the  big  desk,  she  halted.  Her  cheeks 
were  pink — too  pink.  Her  lips  were  pressed  to- 
gether. But  her  eyes  smiled  bravely.  Back  went 
one  brown  shoe,  and  the  slender,  stockinged  legs 
bent  in  a  curtsey. 

"Good-night,  Miss  Fletcher,"  said  Phcebe,  po- 
litely. 

"Good-night,  dear."  Miss  Fletcher's  voice  was 
curiously  husky.  And  as  Phcebe  turned  to  leave, 
the  teacher  rose  abruptly,  banged  a  ruler  upon  the 
green  slope  of  oil-clothed  board  in  front  of  her, 
opened  and  shut  a  drawer  noisily,  and  dabbed  at 
her  eyes  alternately  with  the  back  of  a  hand. 

But  Phcebe  was  going  cheerily  enough.  She  said 
her  usual  good-afternoon  to  the  black-clad,  white- 
aproned  maid  at  the  front  door,  did  a  hop-skip 
across  the  patterned  bricks  of  the  wide  terrace,  and 


62  Phoebe 

went  trippingly  down  the  winding  steps  that  led  to 
the  gate  and  the  street. 

A  limousine  was  waiting  there — a  long,  gleam- 
ing, tawny  vehicle  with  brown  trimmings.  Phoebe 
recognized  the  motor.  It  was  Genevieve  Finne- 
gan's,  and  it  called  for  Genevieve  every  school  after- 
noon. Phcebe  had  seen  other  cars  of  the  same 
color  flashing  hither  and  thither  through  the  town. 
The  Finnegans,  it  was  rumored,  had  five  automo- 
biles in  their  big  garage.  And  Genevieve  had  been 
heard  to  say,  though  it  was  scarcely  believable,  that 
of  the  five  cars  one  was  kept  solely  for  the  use  of 
the  Finnegan  servants !  Servants !  And  Uncle  John 
still  clinging  to  a  surrey  and  a  horse  with  no  check- 
rein  and  a  long  tail ! 

As  Phcebe  sped  down  the  last  half-dozen  steps 
to  the  sidewalk,  she  did  not  even  raise  her  eyes  to 
the  proud  countenance  of  the  smartly  liveried  Fin- 
negan chauffeur.  All  day  she  had  been  troubled, 
knowing  herself  covertly  discussed,  and  slyly 
ignored.  Now,  of  a  sudden,  at  sight  of  this  huge 
testimony  to  many  dollars  and  much  power,  she  felt 
strangely  helpless,  alone,  poor,  and  ashamed. 

Her  unwonted  attention  to  her  desk  had  made 
her  a  quarter  of  an  hour  late.  She  knew  that  Uncle 


Phoebe  63 

John  and  Grandma  were,  even  now,  keeping  an 
eye  on  the  clock,  or  peering  out  of  a  window  to 
see  whether  or  not  she  was  coming  through  the 
drive-way  gate.  She  hurried  along,  eyes  straight 
ahead. 

As  she  walked,  her  lips  moved.  Over  and  over, 
she  was  repeating  certain  things  that  she  had  heard 
the  girls  say  that  day — and  certain  things  that  she 
had  said  in  reply.  For  instance,  Olive  Hayward 
had  spoken  of  the  graduation  exercises,  to  be  held 
early  in  June.  And  when  Phcebe  had  interposed, 
but  very  meekly,  to  inquire  what  part  the  younger 
pupils  would  take,  Olive,  who  was  fully  as  round, 
Phoebe  decided,  as  Uncle  Bob  himself — Olive  had 
said,  with  a  queer  glance  at  the  girls  grouped  with 
her,  "Oh,  do  you  think  you'll  still  be  here?"  "I 
think  I  will,"  Phcebe  had  answered,  and  the  girls 
had  laughed! 

Why? 

And  then  there  were  other  things.  Phcebe  re- 
volved around  the  end  of  the  home  gate,  closed  it 
even  as  she  started  up  the  walk,  bumped  in  sur- 
prise against  the  new  screen  door  put  up  that  day 
against  winged  intruders,  sped  along  the  hall,  taking 
off  the  serge  coat  as  she  went,  and  entered  the  liv- 


64  Phoebe 

ing-room,  breathless,  casting  aside  her  hat  with  one 
hand  and  her  coat  with  the  other.  She  seized  the 
squat  stool  upon  which  Uncle  Bob,  when  reading, 
liked  to  rest  his  feet,  carried  it  to  a  high,  old  mir- 
ror that  had,  in  its  time,  reflected  Grandma  in  her 
bridal  gown,  and  stood  upon  it. 

"Well,  young  lady?"  It  was  Uncle  Bob,  from 
the  far  corner  where  was  the  telephone. 

Phoebe  was  turning  herself  before  the  mirror — 
now  this  way,  now  that.  "Excuse  me,  please,"  she 
begged;  "just  a  minute — something — I  must  see — 
right  away — very  important — before  I  change." 

"I  should  say!"  agreed  her  uncle,  watching  her 
curiously.  "What  seems  to  be  the  matter  ?" 

She  came  about  to  face  him.  Her  brows  were 
knit.  Her  eyes  were  troubled.  "That's  just  what — 
what  I  don't  know,"  she  admitted.  "My  dress  is 
all  right. — Is  there  anything  wrong  with  my  dress  ?" 

He  got  up  and  crossed  to  her.  His  underlip  was 
thrust  out,  as  if  he  were  angry.  But  he  answered 
lightly  enough.  "Wrong?  Not  unless  mine  eyes 
deceive  me." 

Phoebe  was  turning  again  more  slowly.  "I 
thought  maybe  my  petticoat  was  showing." 

"Not  a  sign  of  it." 


65 

"But,  Uncle  Bol 

"Yes?    What?" 

"Get  right  behind  me, — straight  behind." 

"Here  I  am." 

"Oh,  Uncle  Bob,  is  there  a  hole  in  my  stocking?" 

He  looked — now  at  one  slim  leg,  now  at  the 
other.  "There  certainly  is  not." 

She  got  down,  her  eyes  solemn.  "Uncle  Bob," 
she  confided,  "I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it. 
But  all  today,  at  school,  the  girls  have  stared,  and 
stared,  and — and  whispered.  I  was  sure  something 
was  wrong — with  my  hair,  or  my  dress.  And  they 
were  too — too  polite  to  tell." 

"Polite,  you  call  'em!"  And  Phcebe  noted  how 
Uncle  Bob's  chest  rose,  so  that  the  front  edges  of 
his  coat  drew  apart.  Just  over  the  top  of  his  col- 
lar, too,  his  neck  grew  scarlet.  "Staring  and  whis- 
pering! The  ill-bred  chits!" 

But  Phoebe  was  not  angry — only  puzzled.  "It's 
— it's  another  mystery,"  she  said,  almost  under  her 
breath. 

"Say !" — her  Uncle  came  to  stand  beside  her,  and 
he,  too,  lowered  his  voice — "do  you  know,  I  don't 
believe  I  like  that  Simpson  School!  Suppose  we 
just  cut  it  out?" 


66  Phcebe 

The  light  in  her  eager  eyes  answered  him.  She 
had  been  wondering  just  how  she  could  go  on  at 
Miss  Simpson's,  with  the  girls  acting  so  queerly, 
and  not  asking  her  to  walk  home  with  them,  or  sit 
with  them  under  the  school  arbor  during  the  morn- 
ing study-hour.  "You  mean,  Uncle  Bob,"  she 
breathed  incredulously,  "that  I  won't  have  to  go  to 
Miss  Simpson's  any  more?" 

"Well,  something  on  that  order."  The  Judge 
smiled  a  wide,  tooth-revealing  smile. 

But  his  news  was  too  good  to  be  true.  "Has 
Daddy  said  so?"  she  wanted  to  know. 

"He  hasn't,  but  I've  a  strong  idea  that  he  will." 

"Oh,  I'm  glad !"  She  took  a  deep  breath.  "Be- 
cause, Uncle  Bob,  I've  felt — well,  so  queer  at  school 
for  several  days.  You  know — uneasy." 

He  nodded.  "I  know."  And  more  confidentially, 
leaning  down  to  say  it,  "I've  heard  of  other  girls — 
oh,  extra  fine  girls — who  felt  exactly  like  you  do 
about  Miss  Simpson's." 

But  Phoebe  was  scarcely  listening.  A  new  plan — 
a  wonderful,  heart-stirring  plan — had  come  to  her, 
following  on  the  thought  that  now  her  days  were 
again  free.  "Oh,  Uncle  Bob,"  she  began,  "if  I  don't 


Phoebe  67 

have  to  go  to  school  again,  maybe  Daddy  will  let 
me  go  West !  To  Mother !" 

Her  uncle  backed  a  step;  his  look  lifted  to  the  wall 
behind  her.  He  slapped  one  plump  hand  with  the 
other,  pursing  his  lips  thoughtfully.  "Mm — er — 
yes,"  he  observed;  then  turning  away,  "I'm  afraid 
we  haven't  made  things  very  lively  for  you  here." 

"It  isn't  that,"  she  protested.  "I've  had  Daddy. 
And  I  love  to  be  here  with  all  of  you.  You're 
all  so  nice  to  each  other — never  cross.  But — but, 
Uncle  Bob,  I'm  beginning  to — to  miss  my  Mother." 
Her  look  beseeched  him. 

He  sat  down,  holding  out  his  hands  to  her,  and 
she  came  to  stand  at  his  knee.  "If  you  have  to  stay 
a  little  longer  with  us,"  he  said  gently,  "you  can 
be  out-doors  every  one  of  these  sunny  Spring  days, 
and  you  can  plant  a  garden.  And  when  it  rains, 
well,  this  isn't  a  little,  tucked-up  New  York  apart- 
ment— this  big  house." 

She  looked  around,  nodding.  "It's  terribly  big," 
she  declared.  "So  many  rooms,  and  so  far  up  to 
the  ceiling.  At  first  I  almost  got  lost — you  re- 
member? To  go  anywhere,  you  have  to  travel  so 
much." 

Uncle  Bob  laughed,  and  drew  her  to  him.    "You 


68  Phoebe 

blessed !"  he  said.  "Of  course  it's  big.  Why,  there's 
room  enough  here  to  swing  a  cat." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Phoebe,  "but  I  don't  want  to  swing 
a  cat." 

"I  mean" — Uncle  Bob  was  shaking  precisely  like 
the  more  substantial  portion  of  a  floating-island 
pudding! — "that  you  can  stretch  yourself." 

"No."  Phoebe  shook  her  head  with  decision. 
"No,  Uncle  John  doesn't  like  me  to  stretch.  He 
says,  'Ladies  don't  do  it'." 

"Oh,  you  funny  little  tyke!"  cried  Uncle  Bob. 
"Can't  you  run,  and  romp,  and  play  ?" 

"In  here?"  she  asked,  swinging  an  arm. 

"Yes,  dumpling!" 

"No,"  answered  Phcebe,  as  certain  as  before. 
"I'd  bother  Uncle  John  when  he's  writing  a  ser- 
mon. So  Saturdays,  when  I'm  here,  I  just  stand 
at  a  window  if  I  can't  play  out  in  the  yard.  I  just 
stand  and  look  out.  But  I  can't  see  much — even 
upstairs.  Because  this  house  is  so  awfully  low 
down,  next  the  ground." 

"Low  down !"  ejaculated  her  uncle,  amazed. 

"Yes.  In  New  York,  our  apartment  was  'way 
high  up  in  the  building,  and  we  could  look  over 
the  tops  of  houses  to  the  River.  And  the  other  di- 


Phcebe  69 

rection,  oh,  there  was  a  wonderful  moving-picture 
theatre,  and "  She  stopped,  suddenly  remem- 
bering. 

But  her  Uncle  Bob  smiled  at  her  kindly.  "And 
what  about  that  theatre?" 

"I  went  lots  of  evenings,  before  Mother  was  so 
sick — just  Mother  and  I  went,  or  Sally  took  me. 
My!  but  I  love  the  movies!"  Then,  fearing  he 
might  misjudge  her,  "I  loved  the  nights  we  stayed 
at  home,  too.  They  were  so  cosy.  Daddy  would 
be  gone,  or  busy,  or  just  downtown.  So  Mother 
would  sit  at  the  window  in  her  room,  in  a  big  chair, 
and  I'd  sit  on  her  knees.  Of  course,  my  legs  are 
long,  and  they  hung  over.  So  we  just  put  a  stool 
close  by  to  hold  up  my  feet,  and  then — then  Mother 
would  sing  to  me."  Her  lips  trembled. 

"Darling !"  said  Uncle  Bob,  tenderly.  There  were 
tears  in  her  eyes,  but  she  was  smiling  through  them 
bravely  at  this  uncle  who  seemed  always  to  under- 
stand her.  Whereupon  he  smiled,  too,  and  kissed 
her.  "Maybe  Grandma  can  hold  you  like  that, 
in  a  big  chair,  sometimes." 

"I'm  afraid  she  isn't  strong  enough,"  answered 
Phcebe.  "And  then,  maybe  she  wouldn't  know  just 
how  to  sing." 


70  Phoebe 

"I  see."  He  pondered  the  problem  a  moment. 
"Well,  of  course,  I  can  hold  you.  But  about  the 
singing — just  what  was  it  that  Mother  sang?" 

"Oh,  she  just  made  it  up  as  she  went  along — to 
suit  the  occasion." 

He  put  his  arms  about  her  then,  and  held  her 
close.  And  there  was  a  long  pause. 

Her  eyes  were  brimming.  And  presently,  with 
a  long  sigh,  she  spoke  again:  "Oh,  how  I  like 
my  mother  to  hold  me !" — it  was  scarcely  more  than 
a  whisper.  "I  like  her  arms,  and  the  place  just 
here  on  her  shoulder."  The  coat  under  her  cheek 
was  checked.  She  touched  a  black  square  with  a 
finger.  "And  she  uses  perfumery  on  her  hair.  Oh, 
Uncle  Bob,  I  love  her  hair !  I — I  love  my  mother!" 

She  wept  then,  without  restraint.  And  the  Judge, 
awkwardly,  and  puffing  not  a  little  with  the  effort, 
gathered  her  up  in  his  arms  and  held  her,  whis- 
pering to  her,  straining  the  little  figure  to  his 
breast. 

"I  can't  say  anything  to  Daddy,"  she  sobbed. 
"Oh,  Uncle  Bob!  Uncle  Bob!" 

He  patted  her  shoulder.  He  laid  a  big  cheek 
against  her  wet,  baby-soft  face.  He  rocked  her 
gently,  yearning  over  her  with  all  the  fatherliness 


Phoebe  71 

of  his  big  heart.  How  many  times,  as  Grandma 
told  her,  had  tearful  little  ones  cried  out  to  him 
where  he  sat  in  his  lofty  chambers  at  the  Court 
House!  How  often  had  his  tender  sympathy 
wrapped  them  about  like  a  robe — the  mistreated, 
the  lonely,  the  children  that  lacked  love !  But  here, 
calling  upon  him  for  help  in  her  suffering,  was  one 
dearer  than  all  others,  of  his  own  blood.  And  what 
would  he  do  to  help  her? 

"When  can  I  see  Mother?"  she  asked.    "When?" 

"Give  us  all  time,"  he  pleaded.     "I  know  how 

it  is,  but  try  to  bear  it — try  to  wait.     It'll  all  come 

out  right  somehow — it's  got  to,  Phoebe.     Oh,  it's 

got  to!" 

She  felt  that  he  understood,  that  he  grieved  with 
her,  that  her  heartache  was  his  own. 


THE  blow  she  awaited  fell — twenty-four  hours 
later. 

Phoebe  spent  much  of  that  twenty- four  hours  in 
conjectures.  And  the  final  and  pathetic  conclu- 
sion to  which  she  came  was  that  she  had  done 
something  wrong,  something  "awful  bad,"  though 
what  it  was  she  could  not  guess.  But  whatever  it 
was,  it  was  so  terrible  that  the  girls  at  Miss  Simp- 
son's had  turned  against  her. 

And  what  about  Miss  Simpson  herself?  Phoebe 
understood  that  Miss  Simpson  was  a  personage  in 
the  community.  Though  her  school  was  not  the 
only  one  of  its  kind  in  the  place,  it  was  the  only  one 
that  counted.  To  be,  or  not  to  be,  a  "Simpson 
girl"  meant,  on  the  one  hand,  membership  in  that 
exclusive  very  young  crowd;  on  the  other,  almost 
complete  ostracism  from  it.  Miss  Simpson  had  in 
her  hands  (everybody  knew  it}  the  social  future  of 
the  town's  growing  girls. 

Phoebe's  cry  over,  Uncle  Bob  had  gone  to  join 
72 


Phoebe  73 

his  two  brothers  in  the  library.  A  conference  be- 
gan there,  Phoebe  felt  sure;  she  was  certain,  too, 
that  she  was  the  subject  of  it.  As  she  paused 
at  the  foot  of  the  stairs — this  just  outside  the  library 
door — she  heard  Grandma's  voice,  too.  Grandma 
was  weeping ! 

Phoebe  went  up  to  her  room.  She  stole  up,  on 
tip-toe,  guiltily.  Her  brows  were  puckered,  her  eyes 
wide,  her  lips  pursed.  She  forbore  to  steady  her- 
self by  a  hand  on  the  banisters,  lest  they  creak. 

As  she  went,  she  made  a  resolve.  It  had  to  do 
with  Sophie.  In  a  way,  of  course,  Sophie  could 
not  be  trusted.  For  though  on  occasions  Sophie 
seemed  to  belong  on  Phcebe's  side — in  a  dividing 
of  the  household  which  existed  only  in  Phcebe's 
mind — at  other  times  the  maid  swung  over  to  the 
clique  of  grown-ups,  and  Phoebe  was  left,  as  it 
were,  on  the  defence,  alone.  Yet  Phoebe  had  dis- 
covered that  now  and  again  it  was  possible'  to  get 
information  from  Sophie.  Phoebe's  resolve  was  to 
"pump"  Sophie. 

Arrived  in  her  room,  she  gave  herself  up,  a  sec- 
ond time,  to  a  close  scrutiny  of  herself  in  the  glass. 
First,  she  looked  at  her  clothes,  feeling  that,  after 
all,  there  was  some  fault  in  them  (and  Uncle  Bob, 


74  Phoebe 

though  a  Judge,  was  only  a  man,  after  all,  and 
could  not  competently  pass  on  the  matter  of  a  girl's 
dress).  Having  satisfied  herself  that  there  was 
nothing  glaringly  faulty  in  her  dress,  Phoebe  took 
her  hand-mirror  and  went  to  a  window ;  and  seating 
herself,  examined  her  face,  hair  and  throat — criti- 
cally, unsparingly. 

Once  she  had  asked  her  mother  if  she  was  pretty. 
And  Mother — herself  so  beautiful! — had  answered, 
with  a  kiss,  "Of  course  /  think  so."  But  now, 
Phoebe  asked  herself,  was  this  quota  of  hair,  fea- 
tures and  slender  neck  considered  attractive  in  the 
eyes  of  those  who  did  not  love  her? 

Every  freckle  and  flaw  stood  out  alarmingly  in 
the  afternoon  light.  Phoebe  concluded  that  in  point 
of  good  looks  she  brought  nothing  to  Miss  Simp- 
son's School.  And  as  she  had  no  money,  like 
Genevieve  Finnegan 

She  put  down  the  mrrror  and  went  to  the  closet. 
In  the  daytime,  she  was  never  afraid  to  open  the 
door  of  the  closet.  That  nameless,  terrifying  Thing 
which  made  the  place  dreaded  at  night,  went  higher, 
after  sun-up,  so  Phoebe  believed,  to  lurk  in  the  cave- 
like  storage  places  that,  sloping  of  roof,  opened 
off  the  attic. 


Phoebe  75 

She  had  not  many  dresses  in  the  closet.  She 
touched  each  in  turn.  Then  she  stood  for  a  few 
minutes  on  the  threshold  of  the  closet  to  get  a 
general  and  comprehensive  idea  of  her  little  ward- 
robe. After  which,  hunting  her  old  doll,  she  went 
back  to  the  window  to  think. 

Grandma,  weeping — that  seemed,  to  her,  the 
thing  most  significant.  Why  was  Grandma  weep- 
ing? "No,"  said  Phoebe,  solemnly,  to  the  doll,  "it 
isn't  my  face,  and  it  isn't  my  clothes."  For,  after 
all,  when  it  came  to  looks,  Phoebe  felt  herself  to 
be  better  looking  than,  say,  Genevieve.  And  there 
were  two  or  three  other  girls  at  Miss  Simpson's 
•who  were,  if  proud,  quite  plain.  As  for  clothes, 
Grandma  had  no  need  to  feel  badly  about  them; 
all  she  had  to  do  was  order  more! 

It  was,  indeed,  a  mystery.  Phoebe  tried  to  re- 
member any  story  that  resembled  hers  among  all 
the  moving  pictures  she  had  ever  seen.  She  could 
remember  a  little  girl  who  stole  jam,  and  another 
little  girl  who  stole  watermelons.  But  she  had 
taken  nothing,  had  done  no  wrong  wilfully.  At 
that,  the  tears  of  self-pity  flowed.  She  hid  her  face 
against  the  doll. 

Then — of  a  sudden — she  felt  she  knew!     Pray- 


76  Phoebe 

ers !  That  was  it !  The  girls  had  discovered,  some- 
how, that  Phoebe  had  only  recently  learned  to  pray ! 
She  stood  up,  dropping  the  doll  to  the  floor. 

Mother  had  never  taught  her  to  pray.  And  once 
when  Phoebe  had  asked  about  prayers  (having  seen 
two  children  kneeling  beside  their  father's  chair  in 
a  moving  picture),  Mother  had  answered,  rather 
sharply,  "I  don't  believe  in  teaching  innocent  little 
tots  that  they're  full  of  sin.  It's  wicked."  But 
Grandma — when  she  found  that  Phoebe  did  not 
know  "Now  I  lay  me" — Grandma  had  knelt  down 
beside  Phoebe  (they  were  in  Phoebe's  room)  and 
implored  God  to  touch  Phoebe's  heart,  and  claim 
Phoebe's  love.  And  a  day  or  two  later,  Uncle  John 
had  called  Phoebe  into  the  library,  where  Phoebe 
had  learned  "Now  I  lay  me,"  and  the  Lord's  Prayer, 
and  had  listened  to  a  very  great  deal  that  Uncle 
John  said,  the  sum  and  substance  of  which  was  that 
Phoebe's  ignorance  in  the  matter  of  prayers  was  so 
shocking  as  to  be  beyond  even  Uncle  John's  power 
to  express.  Phoebe  gathered  further,  though  her 
uncle  was  discreet  when  it  came  to  naming  anyone 
who  should  be  blamed,  that  Mother,  yes,  and 
Daddy,  were  equally  culpable,  and  that  Phoebe  had 
virtually  been  snatched  from  the  burning. 


Phoebe  77 

So — Phoebe  decided — it  was  the  prayers.  True, 
she  had  prayed  faithfully  for  the  past  two  or  three 
months.  But  the  girls  had  discovered  about  the 
unlucky  thirteen  years  and  more  that  went  be- 
fore! 

Something  pounded  in  Phoebe's  throat.  And 
there  by  the  window,  one  knee  on  the  forgotten 
doll,  she  bowed  herself.  .  .  . 

Later,  when  she  went  down  to  supper,  she  felt 
more  certain  than  ever  that  she  was  right.  It  was 
the  prayers!  For  as  she  entered  the  dining-room, 
guiltily,  wistfully,  on  slow  foot,  and  with  lowered 
look,  nobody  greeted  her  cheerily.  Her  father 
kissed  her,  but  absent-mindedly.  He  ate  without 
speaking.  Uncle  John  was  silent,  too — and  stern. 
Uncle  Bob  made  one  or  two  pathetic  attempts  to 
start  conversation,  but  Phcebe  could  see  that  even 

jolly  Uncle  Bob !  And  Grandma,  pressing 

dainties  upon  Phcebe,  and  smiling  tenderly  (with 
swollen  eyes),  was  plainly  anxious  and  disturbed. 

So  was  Sophie!  True,  she  winked  at  Phcebe 
once  during  the  course  of  the  meal.  But  it  was  a 
solemn  wink.  Her  manner  was  subdued.  She 
moved  carefully,  rattling  no  dishes.  Phcebe  caught 
the  girl's  eyes  upon  her  more  than  once.  Phcebe 


y8  Phoebe 

understood  the  look — it  was  all  examination,  and 
curiosity. 

"Can  Sophie  take  me  upstairs?"  asked  Phoebe, 
at  bedtime.  The  uncles  were  back  in  the  library 
once  more,  and  Phoebe's  father  was  with  them.  But 
there  was  no  sound  of  argument. 

"Are  you — lonesome  ?"  returned  Grandma.  And 
her  head  shook  very  much. 

"I'd  like  to  have  Sophie  go  up  with  me/*  Phoebe 
answered. 

But  when  she  and  Sophie  were  upstairs,  alone, 
and  the  latter  had  finished  her  pillow-beating, 
Phoebe  asked  no  questions.  She  feared  to;  and 
she  knew  that  Sophie  would  not  go  without  some 
word,  some  hint. 

It  came.  "Miss  Simpson  was  in  to  see  your 
Grammaw  this  afternoon," — this  casually,  with  a 
quick  look;  then,  "Did  you  know  it?" 

Phoebe  was  equally  adroit.  "She  was  ?"  she  asked 
indifferently. 

"Yop.     I  don't  like  that  woman." 

Sophie  went.  And  Phoebe,  left  behind  in  the 
dark,  lay  thinking.  Miss  Simpson  had  called! 
Uncle  Bob  had  not  mentioned  it.  Why?  And  why 
had  Miss  Simpson  called?  What  had  she  told  or 


Phoebe  79 

asked?  Phoebe  knew  that  it  was  this  visit  which 
had  made  Uncle  Bob  decide  against  Phoebe's  con- 
tinuing at  the  school. 

If  the  five  grown  men  and  women  in  the  big 
rooms  below  could  have  known  how  grievously 
Phoebe's  ignorance  of  any  part  of  the  real  truth 
was  torturing  the  child,  then  each,  and  all,  would 
have  hastened  up  the  stairs  to  that  little  figure, 
turning  and  tossing,  as  the  bewildered  brain  strove 
to  arrive  at  facts.  For  though  the  facts  were  bad 
enough,  Phoebe's  guesses  were  far  more  terrible. 
She  did  not  pray,  or  weep.  She  lay  and  planned 
how  she  would  run  away — to  Mother. 

But  she  was  quite  herself  in  the  morning.  When 
she  awoke,  the  sight  of  branches  against  her  win- 
dows— lovely,  green,  tree-top  branches,  of  sunlight 
streaming  in,  the  songs  of  birds  coming  faintly,  and 
loud  cock-crows,  all  these  drove  away  magically  the 
fear  and  ache  and  loneliness  of  the  night. 

She  remembered  that  she  did  not  have  to  go  to 
school — and  was  glad!  Why,  it  was  quite  like  a 
Saturday!  Freedom,  no  sermons,  no  admonitions 
to  be  quiet  of  foot  and  voice!  And  had  she  not 
heard  about  some  little  new  ducks  that  were  about 
to  hatch? 


80  Phoebe 

She  sprang  up.  She  kissed  her  mother's  photo- 
graph with  a  smiling  kiss.  She  sang  over  her  dress- 
ing. She  showed  a  sunny  face  at  the  breakfast- 
table,  where  Uncle  John  ate  silently,  and  Uncle  Bob 
sat  behind  his  paper.  The  night  before,  what  a 
sense  of  guilt  was  hers!  It  was  gone.  Her  good- 
morning  was  merry.  She  winked  back  saucily  at 
Sophie's  wink,  and  ate  her  oatmeal  with  good  appe- 
tite. Grief  and  fourteen,  how  short  was  their  stay 
together!  For  she  was  entirely  overlooking  the 
fact  that  this  was  the  day  she  was  intending  to 
run  away! 

"And  what's  my  little  daughter  figuring  on  doing 
this  morning?"  her  father  asked;  " — lucky  Phoebe, 
who  doesn't  have  to  be  shut  up  in  school!" 

Phoebe  thought  perhaps  the  ducks  were  hatched 
by  now. 

"Hatched  and  swimming  in  Uncle  Bob's  pool," 
announced  Grandma,  "And  the  poor  mother-hen 
is  so  worried !" 

At  that,  Uncle  Bob  came  out  from  behind  his 
paper — came  out  like  the  sun  from  behind  a  cloud. 
And  he  had  another  cup  of  coffee,  and  threw  a  vio- 
let across  the  table  to  Phoebe,  and  pretended  to  be 
shocked  at  the  conduct  of  the  ducks.  So  that 


Phoebe  81 

Phoebe  laughed,  and  Grandma  and  Daddy  smiled — 
yes,  even  Uncle  John  smiled.  Breakfast  was  cheer- 
ful. 

Gray  eyes  thoughtful,  Phoebe  fell  to  contrasting  it 
with  breakfasts  in  New  York;  the  contrast  was  the 
sharper  when  each  of  Grandma's  three  sons  pushed 
back  his  chair  in  turn  and  gave  his  mother  a  hearty 
kiss.  What  a  lot  of  kissing  went  on  at  Uncle  Bob's ! 
Everyone  kissed  Grandma  good-morning  and  good- 
night. In  New  York,  Daddy  kissed  Phoebe,  and 
Mother  kissed  Phoebe:  each  other  they  did  not 
kiss. 

Phoebe  thought  of  this  again  later  in  the  day, 
when  Genevieve  came.  For  it  was  Genevieve  who 
delivered  the  blow! 


CHAPTER  VII 

GENEVIEVE  was  Phoebe's  own  age,  but  stockily 
built,  with  an  up-turning  Irish  nose,  reddish  cork- 
screw curls,  and  freckles.  She  had  a  proud,  con- 
scious mouth,  and  her  teeth  were  large.  Her  eyes 
were  almost  as  red  as  her  hair,  and  small.  Around 
them  the  skin  crinkled  up  when  she  laughed,  shut- 
ting them  away  completely.  When  she  had  some- 
thing important  to  say,  she  had  a  trick  of  throw- 
ing her  head  back  with  a  toss  of  the  curls.  Phcebe 
had  noted  the  trick.  Once  or  twice  she  had  even 
practiced  it  in  front  of  her  mirror! 

Genevieve  was  more  overdressed  than  usual  for 
her  call  on  Phcebe.  She  had  a  well  wrapped  pack- 
age under  one  arm,  and  she  wasted  no  time  in  de- 
livering it 

"I've  brought  back  your  books,"  she  explained, 
and  proffered  the  package. 

Phcebe  stared.     "My  books?" 

"From  Miss  Simpson's."     Genevieve  laid  them 
82 


Phoebe  83 

on  the  sitting-room  table  and  sat,  arranging  her 
skirt  grandly. 

Phoebe  still  stared.  It  was  as  if  she  had  unex- 
pectedly been  struck.  Of  course,  if  she  was  not  to 

continue  at  the  school And  yet  to  have  her 

books  sent  after  her ! 

"When  my  motor  called  for  me,"  went  on  Gene- 
vieve,  "I  had  my  chauffeur  put  them  in  the  car," — 
this  with  a  graceful  wave  of  the  hand  toward  the 
package.  "  'It's  no  trouble,'  I  said  to  Miss  Simp- 
son, 'as  long  as  I  have  my  own  motor,  and  my 
chauffeur.'  And  Miss  Simpson  said,  'Thank  you, 
my  dear.  Then  Phcebe  won't  have  to  come  back'." 

Phoebe's  slender  body  stiffened.  "She  said  I 
won't  have  to?"  she  demanded.  "You  mean  my 
Uncle  Bob  said  it."  Then  as  Genevieve's  brows  and 
shoulders  lifted  simultaneously,  "Oh,  Genevieve, 
all  the  girls  have  acted  so  funny.  What's  the  mat- 
ter? Do  you  know?" 

Genevieve  smoothed  the  crisp  folds  of  her  taffeta 
dress.  "I'd  rather  not  say,"  she  declared,  impor- 
tantly evasive. 

But  Phcebe  was  not  to  be  put  off.  "Oh,  please, 
Genevieve!"  she  entreated.  "Tell  me!  Have  I 
done  anything?" 


84  Phcebe 

"N-n-n-no."  Then,  raising  her  eyes  to  Phoebe's 
anxious  face,  "You — you  haven't  heard  anything?'* 

Phcebe  shook  her  head.  "Is  it  because  we  haven't 
got  an  automobile?"  she  ventured;  "only  a  horse 
and  a  surrey?" 

The  reddish  eyes  disappeared  as  Genevieve 
laughed — musically,  in  the  most  approved  Simpson 
manner.  "Oh,  several  of  the  girls  at  the  School 
are  awfully  poor,"  she  reminded.  "I  let  them  ride 
in  my  car.  But" — significantly — "they  have  fine 
standing,  Miss  Simpson  says.  And  they've  never 
had  any  scandal." 

[Vaguely  Phoebe  caught  the  inference.  "Oh,  yes ; 
scandal,"  she  said,  almost  under  her  breath.  "That 
would  be  awful." 

Genevieve  reached  to  touch  Phoebe's  arm  con- 
descendingly. "Don't  you  care,"  she  counseled, 
"because  I  like  you  just  the  same." 

Phcebe  fell  back.  Her  face  paled;  her  heart 
pounded.  Scandal!  and  she  was  on  the  verge  of 
knowing  just  what  was  meant.  She  thought  of  the 
prayers.  She  longed  to  know  the  worse.  "Gene- 
vieve," she  whispered,  "have  I — what  scandal?" 

"It's  funny  you  don't  know,"  marveled  Gene- 
vieve. 


Phoebe  85 

"Oh,  what  is  it?  Please!  Please!"  Phoebe's  lips 
were  trembling. 

Genevieve,  having  postponed  her  informing  to 
her  own  complete  satisfaction,  now  saw  that  the 
moment  was  ripe  for  her  climax.  "Phoebe,"  she  be- 
gan solemnly,  "Miss  Simpson  doesn't  want  you  at 
our  school  because  your  mother's  in  Reno." 

"Reno?"  repeated  Phoebe.  Her  face  lighted  joy- 
ously. Mother  was  in  Reno!  And  if  she  were  to 

carry  out  that  plan  to  run  away !  And  after  all, 

it  was  not  the  prayers! 

"Nevada,"  added  Genevieve,  with  finality.  The 
other's  relief  irritated. 

It  was  Phoebe's  turn  to  toss  her  head.  "Nevada 
is  good  for  my  mother's  cough,"  she  declared. 

"Yes?"  said  Genevieve.  "Well,  everybody  says 
your  mother's  gone  West — hm! — for  another  rea- 
son." 

"She's  sick,"  returned  Phoebe,  quietly.  "And  it's 
smart — Mother  said  so — to  go  to  Florida  or  West 
when  you're  sick." 

Once  more  Genevieve  shrugged.  "Of  course, 
you  ought  to  know  about  your  own  mother.  But 
anyhow  there  was  something  in  the  papers — the 


86  Phoebe 

New  York  papers.  It  was  a  printed  telegram  from 
Nevada." 

"Certainly  there  was,"  Phoebe  agreed.  "Because 
my  mother's  a  New  Yorker,  and  so  the  newspapers 
print  that  she's  out  there.  They'd  be  sure  to.  She's 
so  beautiful." 

Genevieve  rose  abruptly.  "Oh,  all  right!"  she 
retorted.  "But  beautiful  or  not,  all  the  same  you 
can't  blame  Miss  Simpson.  She  doesn't  want  a  girl 
in  her  school  that's  got  a  mother  that's  divorced." 

"Divorced!" 

Genevieve's  eyes  shone.  It  was  the  effect  she 
wanted.  She  moved  toward  the  door.  "Well,  I 
must  be  going,"  she  announced. 

Phcebe  led  the  way.  In  the  hall,  she  turned  up 
the  stairs  without  even  a  glance  toward  her  de- 
parting visitor.  Her  throat  ached.  There  was  a 
sinking  feeling  under  the  high,  wide  belt  of  her 
gingham  dress.  She  longed  for  the  seclusion  of 
her  room — no,  for  the  darkness  of  the  clothes- 
closet.  She  gained  it,  going  unsteadily.  She  closed 
the  door.  Then  she  sank  beside  the  suit-case  and 
laid  her  head  upon  it. 

Divorce!  She  knew  what  that  meant.  Over 
and  over  she  had  seen  it  all  in  the  "movies".  Her 


Phoebe  87 

father  would  no  longer  be  married  to  her  mother: 
The  two  might  not  live  in  the  same  house:  Her 
mother  would  not  even  dare  to  come  to  Grandma's ! 

Something  seemed  to  seize  her  then,  to  press 
upon  her  from  all  sides,  to  crush  and  smother  her. 
With  head  lowered,  and  face  down,  the  blood  came 
charging  up  her  throat,  so  that  she  went  dizzy, 
and  felt  nauseated.  A  chill  shook  her  as  she  lay. 
She  thought  of  death,  and  prayed  for  it. 

"If  I  died,  they'd  both  be  sorry,"  she  told  her- 
self, "and  maybe  then  they  wouldn't  be  divorced." 

Next,  overwhelmingly,  came  a  longing  to  see  her 
mother.  "I'll  go,"  she  determined. 

She  sat  up.  And  in  the  dark  of  the  closet,  with 
the  door  shut,  and  as  noiselessly  as  possible,  she 
packed  the  suit-case. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  suit-case  packed,  Phoebe  sat  down  upon  it — 
to  think.  She  had  known  even  as  she  took  down 
and  folded  her  dresses  that  she  could  not  really 
run  away.  But  the  packing  had  served  as  a  phys- 
ical relief  to  her  mental  anguish.  Also,  she  had 
hoped  in  her  secret  heart  that  she  might  be  dis- 
covered at  her  packing! — discovered  and  com- 
forted; more:  the  ready  suit-case,  the  threatened 
departure  by  night,  alone,  might  bring  her  father 
and  her  uncles  to  believe  that  the  wisest  thing  they 
could  do  would  be  to  send  her  to  her  mother.  Oh, 
how  she  longed  for  her  mother ! 

The  tears  came  then,  and  she  wept,  her  head 
bowed  upon  her  knees.  Divorce !  Never  again  the 
dear  apartment  with  mother  and  Daddy — the  be- 
loved home-nest,  with  its  ivory  woodwork  and  rose 
hangings,  its  perfumed  warmth,  and  beauty  and 
cosiness.  Her  mother  and  father  were  to  be  for- 
ever apart — forever  I 

Sorrow  broke  over  her  like  a  wave.    "Forever !" 

88 


Phoebe  89 

she  wept.  "Forever!"  There  was  something  al- 
most delicious  about  the  very  force  and  keenness 
of  her  grief.  She  was  going  through  a  crisis 
such  as  she  had  seen  pictured  upon  the  screen. 
And  the  very  word  Forever  augmented  her  suf- 
fering and  that  sense  of  curious  gratification  in 
the  undergoing  of  such  agony. 

So  again  and  again  she  went  back  over  the  cause 
of  her  weeping.  Divorce!  They  were  to  be  sepa- 
rated during  all  the  coming  years,  those  two  whom 
she  loved  so  dearly.  Never  again  might  she  have 
them  together,  with  her,  one  at  each  hand.  Always 
now  there  wrould  be  the  pain  of  having  Mother 
gone  if  she,  Phcebe,  was  with  Daddy;  of  having 
Daddy  gone  if  she  was  with  Mother.  Always  it 
would  be  like  that — like  now. 

And  then  her  resentment  rose  against  those  two 
loved  ones.  "Oh,  what's  the  matter  with  them! 
What's  the  matter  with  them !"  she  burst  out.  That 
father  who  seemed  so  gallant  and  fine — how  could 
her  mother  bear  to  be  away  from  him?  And 
Mother,  beautiful,  sweet,  altogether  adorable — 
what  more  did  her  father  ask  ?  They  were  through 
with  each  other!  Oh,  why?  And  then,  melting 


90  Phoebe 

once  more,  Oh,  how  could  she  bear  it!  Oh,  Mother! 
Mother!— Oh,  dear  Daddy! 

Next,  of  a  sudden,  a  more  terrible  thought: 
Would  the  divorce  of  her  parents  mean  that  she 
might  not  be  allowed  to  see  her  mother  again? 

The  very  possibility  brought  her  to  her  feet  and 
out  of  the  closet.  "No!  I  won't  stand  it!"  she 
cried.  "I  must  have  Mother!  I  won't  stay  here! 
I  won't!  I  won't!" 

She  was  immediately  all  resolution.  She  washed 
her  face.  Then  she  took  off  the  dress  she  was  wear- 
ing— her  grandmother  had  bought  it — and  opening 
the  suit-case,  chose  and  put  on  a  dress  of  her 
mother's  buying.  Thus  fortified,  as  it  were,  in 
something  that  had  been  touched  by  hands  dear 
beyond  expression,  she  descended  to  the  library. 
She  hoped  all  the  grown-ups  would  be  there  on  her 
arrival.  She  longed  to  announce  defiantly  her  plan 
to  leave. 

But — only  Uncle  John  was  in  the  room,  leaned, 
as  always,  over  his  papers  and  his  great  flat-topped 
table.  He  did  not  speak;  did  not  even  look  up — as 
Phoebe  advanced  to  a  stand  before  the  large  map 
of  the  United  States  which  hung  above  the  book- 
cases at  one  side  of  the  room. 


Phoebe  91 

Ah,  what  a  great  distance  lay  between!  Here, 
a  small  dot  and  small  letters  showed  the  position 
of  the  town  where  she  was ;  there,  a  larger  dot  and 
larger  letters  marked  the  spot  where  Mother  had 
gone. 

Standing  before  the  map,  with  face  raised,  once 
more  anger  possessed  her — a  fierce  anger — against 
this  town  in  which  she  was,  against  everyone  in  it. 
There  had  been  a  time  when  she  had  fretted  be- 
cause she  could  not  go  about  like  other  girls,  and 
meet  people;  now  she  felt  she  did  not  want  to 
go  anywhere,  did  not  want  to  meet  anyone,  know 
anyone,  make  any  friends! 

They  did  not  like  her  mother?  They  talked 
against  her  mother?  Very  well.  They  need  not 
like  her,  either.  They  could  talk  against  her  if 
they  wanted  to! 

Her  resentment  demanded  action.  There  was  a 
drug-store  down  the  street,  two  blocks  away.  To 
reach  it  from  the  Blair  front  gate,  one  had  to  pass 
a  dozen  houses.  There  were  always  people  on  the 
porches  of  those  houses,  or  on  the  lawns.  Phoebe 
went  upstairs  for  her  New  York  hat,  and  for  her 
purse.  There  was  ice-cream  soda  to  be  had  at  the 
drug-store,  and  sundaes  of  every  description. 


92  Phoebe 

Phoebe  liked  them.  But  they  were  not,  just  then, 
first  in  her  thoughts.  Did  Genevieve  Finnegan, 
and  others  like  her,  expect  Phoebe  Shaw  Blair  to 
hide  herself  away  in  Grandma's  big  house?  To 
weep  alone  at  slights?  "From  such  small-town 
people?"  raged  Phoebe,  as  she  slammed  the  front 
door.  Did  they  think  she  would  act  as  if  she  were 
ashamed  of  her  mother? 

Her  hat  on  the  back  of  her  head,  her  head  in 
the  air,  Phoebe  let  herself  out  of  the  front  gate 
and  started  for  the  drug-store.  And  on  the  way, 
she  passed  every  one  of  those  dozen  houses  without 
so  much  as  a  glance ! 

It  was  a  pleasure  to  do  that.  She  arrived  at  the 
drug-store  in  great  good  humor.  She  felt  that  she 
had  done  something  for  Mother! 

She  was  in  a  reckless  mood.  She  enjoyed  one 
soda  and  two  ice-creams.  She  ignored  the  pretty 
young  woman  who  waited  upon  her.  When  she 
started  homeward,  she  went  with  a  light  step  and 
a  high  chin.  She  wished  she  had  a  dog  to  lead. 
Not  that  she  cared  for  dogs — she  was  afraid  of 
them.  But  if  she  were  leading  a  dog,  he  would  be 
an  excuse  for  running,  and  calling  out  happily. 
That  was  what  she  most  wished  to  do — call  out 


Phoebe  93 

happily,  and  skip — just  to  show  all  those  gaping 
neighbors  how  little  she  cared ! 

She  compromised  on  a  rubber  ball.  It  was  an  in- 
spiration !  The  moment  she  stepped  upon  the  front 
porch,  here  was  Uncle  Bob,  dragging  the  lawn- 
mower  behind  him.  She  explained  that  she  had 
spent  every  cent  she  had  at  the  drug-store.  At 
any  other  time  she  would  have  hesitated  to  con- 
fess that  even  to  Uncle  Bob.  But  now  she  was 
suddenly  indifferent  even  about  what  he  thought. 

And  Uncle  Bob,  seeing  her  cheeks  so  pink  and 
her  eyes  so  full  of  fire,  dropped  the  handle  of 
the  lawn-mower  as  if  it  were  red-hot,  and  emptied 
one  pocket  of  its  silver.  "God  bless  me !"  he  cried. 
"A  rubber  ball's  a  great  idea!  And  if  you  see  any- 
thing else  you  like " 

Phoebe  took  the  silver  and  was  off  like  a  shot. 
She  knew  the  store  that  carried  toys.  She  went 
without  a  pause  to  the  toy-counter.  There  were 
other  things  that  she  liked, — as  Uncle  Bob  had 
suggested — plenty  of  them.  But  for  them  she  had 
no  time.  She  bought  the  ball, — a  large,  gun-metal 
affair  with  a  ridge  around  it  like  an  Equator.  She 
paid  for  it  with  a  proud  air,  not  even  deigning  to 
look  at  the  clerk.  No,  she  did  not  care  to  have  it 


94  Phoebe 

wrapped.  And  even  while  the  man  was  sending 
away  to  make  change  for  the  half  dollar  she  had 
given  him,  she  proceeded  to  bounce  the  ball. 

She  bounced  it  all  the  way  home,  not  taking  her 
eyes  from  it.  She  ran;  she  skipped.  For  her  pur- 
pose, the  ball  was  precisely  as  good  as  the  best  dog 
would  have  been.  As  she  played,  she  knew  people 
were  passing  her  on  the  sidewalk;  or  from  porch 
or  lawn  were  watching  her  pass.  But  she  was  com- 
pletely absorbed. 

After  that,  every  day  for  many  days  she  went 
at  least  once  to  the  drug-store.  And  she  bounced 
the  ball  both  ways  I 


CHAPTER  IX 

Now  came  the  beginning  of  what  was  like  a  new 
era  of  life  for  Phoebe — an  era  in  which,  more  keenly 
than  ever  before,  she  was  to  understand,  and — to 
suffer.  Up  to  now  she  had  not  by  any  means  been 
indifferent  to  the  things  that  touched  her  own  ex- 
istence. And  how  she  had  loved  and  hated,  joyed 
and  sorrowed,  with  her  enthralling  favorites  of  the 
screen!  But  the  time  was  come  when  she  was  to 
awaken  to  depths  and  heights  of  feeling — depths 
and  heights  all  the  more  strikingly  contrasted  be- 
cause her  imagination  was  film-trained;  she  was  to 
regard  herself  as  the  central  figure  in  a  heart 
drama  that  seemed  countless  reels  long. 

And  about  her,  who — with  her  mother  away — 
who  was  to  take  counsel  with  her,  to  sympathize, 
even  to  guess  one  small  part  of  all  that  which  surged 
through  her  young  heart? 

It  was  the  great  pipe-organ  in  Uncle  John's 
church  that  had  most  to  do  with  her  sudden  emo- 
tional awakening,  with  her  realization  that  some- 

95 


96  Phoebe 

thing  really  momentous  had  come  into  her  life. 
Weeks  before  she  had  started  to  school  at  Miss 
Simpson's,  the  church  organ  had  moved  her.  In 
New  York,  at  one  of  the  great  temples  dedicated  to 
moving-pictures,  she  had  often  listened  to  the  boom 
of  just  such  a  glorious  instrument — listened  with 
calm  interest  and  pleasure,  her  hand  clasped  lov- 
ingly in  her  mother's.  And  the  church  organ  had 
not  failed  to  recall  to  her  the  theatre,  and  those 
sweet  hours  that,  alas,  she  had  never  fully  appre- 
ciated. 

But  the  first  Sunday  following  Genevieve  Finne- 
gan's  visit!  The  pipe-organ  stirred  her  cruelly. 
It  spoke  her  own  tragedy — it  told  the  story  of  her 
broken,  bankrupt  home. 

She  had  gone  to  church  meaning  to  sit  up  proudly 
in  the  Blair  pew,  to  keep  her  chin  high,  and  her  lips 
smiling;  to  stand  and  sit  and  kneel  with  the  greatest 
poise,  so  that  those  who  cared  to  look  would  see! 
— particularly  those  who  might  be  sitting  directte 
behind  her.  But  when  the  organ  broke  forth,  fill- 
ing the  high,  dim  spaces,  there  swept  over  her  a 
realization  of  the  sadness  and  the  finality  of  the 
ending  of  that  New  York  life  which  had  been  so 


Phoebe  97 

sweetly  happy.  And  the  young  head  drooped,  the 
lashes  glistened,  the  lips  trembled  pitifully. 

Standing,  she  kept  her  look  lowered.  Kneeling, 
she  prayed — but  not  "Oh,  dear  God"  r(as  Uncle 
John  had  taught  her)  ;  instinctively  her  silent  prayer 
was  addressed  to  her  mother.  "Oh,  darling,  darl- 
ing!" she  implored,  her  forehead  against  the  backs 
of  her  small  gloved  hands.  With  inward  sight  she 
beheld  the  loved  features,  the  yearned  for  arms,  the 
comforting  breast. 

Th  —remorse.  Behind  the  adored  figure,  what 
was  thdt  other?  The  Christ?  Yes.  She  had  seen 
Him  once.  It  was  in  a  war  picture.  A  soldier  was 
dying,  alone,  in  No  Man's  Land.  And  suddenly, 
there  by  the  side  of  the  dying  had  appeared  the 
One  whose  look  of  love  and  compassion  had  brought 
a  smile  to  the  face  of  the  prostrate  boy.  She  must 
not  pray  to  her  mother.  She  must  pray  to  Him. 
"Oh,  dear  Jesus,"  she  plead,  "give  me  back  my 
mother!  Oh,  please  give  me  my  mother!" 

Grandma,  shifting  upon  her  old  knees,  came 
nearer  to  Phoebe  by  a  hand's  breadth.  Grandma's 
dress,  of  wool,  and  black,  with  pipings  of  gros- 
grain,  had  been  made  for  her  two  years  before. 
Faintly  it  smelled  of  moth-balls. 


98  Phoebe 

Phoebe  shrank  away. 

That  morning  Uncle  John's  sermon  failed  to  bore 
her  as  usual.  She  had  her  thoughts.  Only  at  first 
were  they  miserably  unhappy.  As  Uncle  John 
progressed,  she  fell  to  thinking  of  a  plan:  it  had 
to  do  with  her  return  to  New  York.  The  dear 
apartment  was  still  there,  even  if  Mother  was  West. 
Perhaps — undoubtedly! — Sally  was  still  on  hand, 
black  and  bland,  devoted  as  ever,  and  full  of  her 
accustomed  gaiety.  Why  should  Phoebe  stay  in1  a 
town  that  treated  her  unkindly  and  gossiped  rbout 
her  mother?  Why  not  go  back  to  New  York,  the 
dear  home,  the  fond  servant  and  the  enchanting 
"movies"? 

But  how  could  it  be  managed?  She  determined 
to  ask  her  father. 

"I  will  go !  I  will  go !  I  will  I"  she  promised  her- 
self. "I  won't  stay  here!  I  hate  it!  I  hate  it!" 

She  went  out  of  the  church  with  a  face  so  pale 
that  the  blue  veins  stood  forth  on  her  white  skin 
like  tracings  of  ink.  She  remembered  how  screen 
actresses  bore  themselves  when  they  were  suffer- 
ing— how  wistful  was  their  expression,  how  far- 
away was  the  look  in  their  beautiful  eyes.  Phoebe 


Phoebe  99 

bore  herself  like  them,  walking  slowly,  with  up- 
lifted countenance.  And  her  pain  was  real. 

In  a  way,  Uncle  Bob  and  her  father  spoiled  the 
beauty  of  her  keen  pain.  Arriving  home,  she  found 
them  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  house,  tinkering  with 
fish-lines.  Her  father  had  a  can  of  worms,  and 
he  was  adding  to  them  by  turning  back  the  winter 
banking  of  sod  from  the  clapboards.  '  They  wel- 
comed her  joyously,  and  coaxed  little  shrieks  from 
her  by  holding  out  the  worm-can.  She  changed 
her  dress,  and  spent  the  long  afternoon  at  her  fa- 
ther's heels.  The  paleness  left  her  face.  She  con- 
sented to  carry  the  worms,  and  a  shoe-box  filled 
with  sandwiches. 

But  night  brought  back  something  of  the  sweet 
grief  of  the  morning.  Her  father  held  her  for  an 
hour  after  supper,  seated  in  a  big  chair  by  the  sit- 
ting-room hearth.  Her  cheek  against  his  breast, 
she  longed  to  talk  to  him  of  her  mother — of  the 
plan  that  had  occurred  to  her  that  morning;  yet 
she  dared  not.  He  was  not  like  Uncle  Bob,  plump 
and  smiling  and  full  of  invitations  to  confidences: 
he  was  so  quiet,  and  thoughtful,  so  sombre-eyed, 
even  mysterious.  She  felt  his  mysteriousness  most 
when  she  looked  at  his  tight-closed  lips,  his  set 


ioo  Phoebe 

jaws.  And  she  asked  herself,  Was  he  grieving  as 
she  was  grieving,  and  was  it  about  Mother? 

She  sat  up  in  bed  that  night  and  read  "St.  Elmo", 
thrilling  over  the  portions  that  were  full  of  expres- 
sions of  love.  For  her  heart  was  hungry  for  af- 
fection. When  had  she  lacked  protestations  of  it, 
with  Mother  near?  And  Sally  had  never  failed 
to  tell  her  that  she  was  dear.  Her  father  was  not 
demonstrative — never  had  been.  And  now  all  these 
others!  With  the  single  exception  of  Uncle  Bob 
did  they  ever  say  kind  and  tender  things  ? 

When  her  light  was  out,  she  lay  thinking  of  "St. 
Elmo"  and  of  moving-pictures  in  which  children, 
or  young  and  beautiful  heroines,  had  been  held  dear 
beyond  words.  She  repeated  lines  from  the  screen 
that  seemed  very  sweet  to  her — one  in  particular : 
"Across  the  world  he  went,  seeking  her." 

She  felt  her  life  a  failure — her  fate  unspeak- 
ably sad.  She  wept,  her  head  in  her  arms.  All 
sorts  of  pictures  flashed  themselves  upon  her  brain. 
And  she  repeated  certain  Biblical  lines  and  pas- 
sages that  she  had  heard  of  late,  both  at  home  and 
at  Miss  Simpson's.  Somehow  just  to  say  them 
over  exalted  her  strangely.  One  was,  "Whither 


Phoebe  101 

thou  goest  I  will  go";  another,  "He  that  watcheth 
over  Israel  neither  slumbers  nor  sleeps." 

She  slept  at  last,  the  tears  on  her  cheeks.  The 
pipe-organ  had  done  it  all — that  and  the  slowly  ad- 
vancing vested  choir.  It  had  even  made  her  for- 
get, temporarily,  her  childish  fear  of  the  dark.  For 
that  particular  Sunday  night  was  the  first  night  that 
she  had  ever  gone  to  sleep  without  looking  under  the 
bed  and  into  the  clothes-closet. 

The  next  morning,  waking  late,  she  wanted  to 
stay  where  she  was,  with  the  shades  drawn,  and 
read  "St.  Elmo",  and  think  of  sad  things,  and 
say  beautiful  lines,  and  enjoy  more  hours  of  sweet 
unhappiness.  But  voices  called  to  her  from  below 
— Sophie's,-  her  father's,  Uncle  Bob's.  She  kissed 
her  mother's  picture  over  and  over  while  putting 
on  her  shoes  and  her  dress,  and  combing  her  hair. 
When  she  went  down  to  breakfast  she  was  curious- 
ly unable  to  eat. 

Doubtless  one  of  the  household's  grown-ups,  or, 
perhaps,  all  of  them,  saw  that  something  was  wrong, 
for  that  morning,  promptly  on  the  stroke  of  nine, 
Phoebe  had  her  first  lesson  at  home.  It  was  Uncle 
John  who  acted  as  tutor.  He  had  her  read  to  him, 
choosing  "The  Vicar  of  Wakefield".  As  she  went 


;iO2  Phoebe 

along,  haltingly,  he  asked  her  the  meaning  of  words, 
and  had  her  shut  the  book  on  her  forefinger  while 
she  spelled  them.  He  gave  her  several  sums  to  do, 
also,  using  the  arithmetic  that  Genevieve  Finnegan 
had  brought  home  from  Miss  Simpson's;  and  they 
spent  an  hour  over  the  globe,  revolving  it,  and 
hunting  countries  and  oceans  and  mountain-chains. 
Phcebe  knew  far  more  about  the  world,  and  what 
it  looked  like,  here  and  there,  and  its  peoples,  and 
animals,  than  she  dared  to  admit  to  Uncle  John. 
She  knew  because  she  had  seen  so  many  "travel  pic- 
tures". 

That  afternoon  she  spent  in  the  vegetable  garden 
with  Sophie.  The  garden  was  at  a  far  corner  of 
the  Blair  grounds,  well  away  from  any  house.  And 
Phoebe  saw  that  here  was  an  opportunity  to  ask 
Sophie  a  few  questions — the  questions  she  shrank 
from  asking  anyone  else. 

"I  know  why  Miss  Simpson  didn't  want  me  at 
school  any  more,"  she  said,  by  way  of  a  beginning. 

Sophie  was  pulling  radishes.  "Do  y'?"  she  in- 
quired. "Wasn't  it — er — because  your  father 
wasn't  payin'  her  enough  money?" 

"You  know  it  wrasn't,"  declared  Phcebe,  bluntly. 


Phoebe  103 

"You  know  she  wanted  me  out  because  my  mother 
is  West,  getting  a  divorce  from  my  father." 

"My  land!"  marveled  Sophie,  sitting  back  and 
staring  up.  "How'd  you  ever  guess? — Phoebe,  you 
been  listenin'!" 

"Genevieve  Finnegan,"  said  Phoebe,  laconically. 

"Oh,  that  little  imp!" 

"You  knew  all  the  time?" 

Sophie  went  back  to  her  garnering.  "Oh,  yes/* 
she  admitted  proudly.  "I  showed  Miss  Royal  High- 
ness Simpson  in.  And  your  Uncle  John,  he  tried 
to  bluff  her — told  her  your  mamma  wasn't  well, 
and  so  forth.  But  she  didn't  bluff." 

"She  knew,"  put  in  Phoebe,  "because  there  was 
a  piece  in  a  New  York  paper." 

"Right  y'  are!  Well,  she  didn't  want  talk  in 
her  school,  she  said;  didn't  want  her  little  girls, 
the  angels,  to  even  know  there  was  such  a  thing  as 
divorce  in  the  whole  world!" 

"It's  in  the  movies,"  reminded  Phoebe.  "The 
girls  all  know." 

"Course  they  do!  And  when  she  had  somethin' 
to  say  to  the  Judge,  you  betcha  he  told  her  what's 
what!" 

"Good  for  Uncle  Bob!" 


IO4  Phoebe 

"He  says  to  her,  'Miss  Simpson,  Phoebe  will  not 
remain  at  your  precious  school'.  And  I  showed 
her  out  the  front  door," — this  with  a  flourish  of 
her  arms,  both  hands  coming  to  rest  on  her  hips 
while  she  gave  a  toss  of  the  tousled  head. 

Phoebe  touched  Sophie  on  the  shoulder.  "Is — is 
divorce  why  my  mother  sent  me  here?"  she  asked. 

"Phoebe,  if  I  tell  y'  the  truth " 

"But,  then,  maybe  you  don't  know  either,"  added 
Phoebe,  adroitly,  since  she  had  learned  that,  with 
Sophie,  the  best  method  was  to  belittle  Sophie's 
knowledge,  and  thus  strike  at  her  pride. 

"Maybe  I  don't  know!"  cried  Sophie,  scornfully. 
"I  guess  I  knew  all  about  it  before  you  ever  showed 
up.  Your  paw  brought  you,  young  lady,  without 
your  mamma  knowin'  that  he  planned  to.  Now!" 

"Sophie !"  It  was  Phoebe's  turn  to  sit  back.  She 
stared,  aghast. 

"Yes,  ma'am.  Your  paw  just  naturally  stole 
you." 

"But  Mother's  telegram !    It  told  me  to  come." 

"Yes?    Well,  your  paw  sent  you  that  telegram." 

Phoebe  did  not  speak  for  a  minute.  While  things 
began  to  clear  for  her — the  swift  packing,  the  sud- 
den departure  from  New  York,  the  telegrams  that 


Phoebe  105 

had  come,  one  after  another,  the  fact  that  she  had 
had  no  letters,  nor  been  permitted  to  read  those 
written  her  father.  Stolen!  By  her  father,  from 
her  mother! 

"Why?"  demanded  Phoebe,  suddenly;  then,  as 
Sophie  glanced  up,  "Why  did  Daddy  steal  me?" 

"Didn't  want  you  out  there  in  a  divorce  town,  I 
guess." 

"Oh.  And  why  was  I  watched  so,  and  never 
taken  anywhere  for  a  long  time?" 

"If  I  tell  y',  you'll  never,  never  tell?" 

"Never,  never,  never — cross  my  heart  to  die !" 

"The  folks  here  was  afraid  your  mamma' d  steal 
you  back." 

Phcebe  was  appalled.  She  got  up,  and  stood  over 
Sophie,  wavering  a  little,  too  shocked  to  speak. 

"Phcebe!"  comforted  Sophie,  reaching  out  her 
earth-stained  hands.  "Dear  kiddie!" 

"They — they  don't  want  me  to  be  with  Mother? 
— again  ?" 

Quickly  Sophie  averted  her  eyes.  "I  wouldn't 
say  that,"  she  declared.  "Why,  no!  Y'  see,  it's  this 
way:  two  of  'em  here  thinks  the  same  about  it, 
dearie.  Your  grammaw  and  the  Judge  thinks  a 
little  girl  is  always  best  off  when  she's  with  her 


io6  Phoebe 

mother.  I  heard  the  Judge  say  so,  and  his  maw 
agreed.  But  your  Uncle  John " 

Phoebe  drew  in  a  long,  trembling  breath.  Then, 
"I  hate  him !"  she  declared.  "Because  he  hates  my 
mother." 

"You  spoke  the  truth  that  time,"  continued 
Sophie.  "He  married  your  mamma  to  Mister  Jim, 
but  he  didn't  like  her — never.  Oh,  he's  all  on  your 
paw's  side." 

"You  mean  that  Daddy ?" 

"Your  daddy  don't  say  what  he  thinks,"  re- 
minded Sophie.  "But  I  guess  your  mamma  done 
somethin'  that  made  him  pretty  mad." 

Phoebe  longed  to  know  what,  to  ask  about  it 
iYet  she  shrank  from  having  Sophie  tell  her  any- 
thing that  might  be  in  the  slightest  degree  against 
her  mother. 

"I  don't  know  what  it  was,"  Sophie  went  on. 
"But  it  got  so  bad  between  'em  that  there  just  had 
to  be  a  split-up.  Course  your  Uncle  John's  dead 
against  divorces,  bein'  a  minister.  The  'Piscopal 
Church  is  like  that.  And  I  kinda  believe  your  father 
thinks  the  same  way.  But  your  Uncle  Bob  and  your 
grammaw  say  that  if  a  married  couple  ain't  happy 


Phoebe  107 

they  oughta  sep'rate,  and  be  done  with  it,  and  not 
quarrel  around  where  there's  a  child." 

Phoebe  knelt,  and  put  a  hand  under  Sophie's 
chin.  "Tell  me:"  she  begged;  "When  Daddy  and 
Mother  are  divorced,  what  do  you  think  is  going 
to  happen  to  me?" 

"We-e-ell," — Sophie  considered  the  question, 
pursing  her  mouth  and  blinking. 

"Oh,  now!"  challenged  Phcebe,  impatiently. 
"What  do  they  all  say?" 

"What  do  they  know  about  your  mamma's 
plans?"  Sophie  retorted.  "Maybe  she'll  marry 
again." 

Phoebe  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed. 
"Marry  again!"  she  cried.  "My  mother?  She'd 
never  do  that!  Never!  She'll  come  back.  And 
I'll  live  with  her.  I  won't  stay  here.  Not  one  min- 
ute! Not " 

"Sh!  Sh!"  warned  Sophie.  "Don't  talk  so  loud. 
And  just  think  over  this:  If  your  Maw  don't 
marry  again,  maybe  Mister  Jim  won't  let  you  go 
back  to  her." 

"Why  not?" 

Sophie  shook  her  head.  "I  don't  understand  it 
myself,"  she  admitted.  "Only  I  know  that  your 


io8  Phoebe 

Uncle  Bob  thinks  there  oughta  be  what  he  calls  a 
reg'lar  new  home,  with  a  husband  in  it  to  take 
care  of  your  mamma." 

"Daddy  would  take  care  of  Mother  and  me," 
declared  Phcebe,  proudly.  "I  know  Daddy." 

"But  y'  see,  after  a  divorce,  your  Daddy  might 
want  to  be  dead  sure  everything  was  right  for  you, 
and  happy,  and — and  safe." 

"Safe!"  repeated  Phoebe,  disdainful.  "You  don't 
know  New  York.  What  could  happen  to  me  or 
Mother  in  our  dear  little  apartment?  Why,  the 
whole  thing — marrying  again,  and  not  being  safe 
in  New  York — it's  just  crazy! — Oh,  Sophie,  how 
long  will  it  be  before  Mother  is  divorced?  Oh,  I 
hope  it's  soon!  Then  I'll  have  her!  I'll  have  her! 
Oh,  Sophie!" 

She  gave  Sophie  a  hug,  and  they  promised  each 
other  not  to  breathe  one  word  of  their  conversa- 
tion. 

"Don't  you  see  how  much  it's  like  a  movie?" 
Phoebe  wanted  to  know.  "Daddy  steals  me,  then 
Mother  tries  to  steal  me  back,  then  Nevada — why, 
it's  exactly  like  a  movie.  And  a  good  movie!" 

Sophie  thought  so  too. 


CHAPTER  X 

THAT  night,  at  supper,  Phoebe  viewed  the  mem- 
bers of  her  family  with  a  new  eye — with  a  fresh 
understanding.  And  was  thrilled,  as  well  as  grati- 
fied in  her  vanity,  by  the  thought  that  she  knew 
quite  as  much  about  "everything"  as  they  did.  Now 
and  then  she  stole  a  wise  glance  at  Sophie,  to  which 
the  latter  gave  no  answering  sign. 

Other  thoughts  thrilled  Phoebe  even  more: 
Daddy  had  stolen  her! — caught  her  up  and  carried 
her  off,  precisely  like  the  heroine  in  a  drama !  Then 
(delicious  thought!)  dear  Mother  had  sent  wire 
after  wire — probably  demanding  Phoebe's  return! 
And  had  wanted  to  steal  her  back!  How?  Had 
Mother  actually  been  here?  Close?  Right  in  the 
town?  the  neighborhood?  Had  she  even  caught 
glimpses  of  Phoebe,  perhaps? 

In  the  hour  preceding  her  going  up  to  bed,  as 
she  strolled  with  her  father  to  the  drug-store  and 

back,  she  thought  of  a  great  many  questions  that 

109 


no  Phoebe 

she  meant  to  ask  Sophie  the  very  first  chance  she 
had. 

The  chance  came  that  evening.  As  Phoebe  was 
on  the  point  of  falling  asleep,  her  door  opened 
stealthily,  there  was  a  cautious  whisper  to  allay  any 
alarm,  then  the  door  closed  softly  and  Sophie  turned 
on  the  light. 

"Phcebe,"  she  began — her  face  was  grave  and 
her  voice  anxious ;  "y°u  won't  say  a  word  about  my 
tellin'  you  what  I  did  this  afternoon?" 

"I  won't,"  declared  Phoebe. 

"  'Cause  if  the  folks  was  to  find  out,  they'd  fire 
me." 

Phcebe  took  Sophie's  hand  and  made  her  sit  on 
the  bed.  "Oh,  there's  more  I  want  to  find  out," 
she  whispered;  " — lots  more." 

"If  the  folks  find  out  you  know,"  continued 
Sophie,  too  concerned  over  her  own  danger  to 
think  about  what  Phcebe  was  saying,  "why,  it 
needn't  be  me  they  blame.  'Cause  almost  anybody 
in  town  mighta  told  y'." 

Phcebe  stared.  "You  mean  everybody  knows?" 
she  demanded. 

"Everybody  'round  here,  anyhow." 

"And  I— I  didn't  know!" 


Phoebe  in 

"I'm  sorry  I  told  y'."  Sophie  turned  away  her 
face.  She  lifted  a  corner  of  her  apron  to  an  eye. 

"Please !"  begged  Phoebe.  "I  won't  tell.  Honest ! 
Didn't  I  promise?  Only  I'm — well,  I  hate  to  think 
about  it.  Everybody  knew — but  me." 

Sophie  went  then.  She  would  answer  no  more 
questions,  vowing  she  had  already  told  everything 
she  knew.  She  left  Phoebe  quite  cast  down.  It 
was  one  thing  to  hear  such  thrilling  things  about 
herself,  to  realize  that  she  had  been  the  subject  of 
those  long  and  heated  conferences  that  she  knew 
had  been  carried  on  in  the  library,  to  understand 
that  Grandma  had  shed  tears  over  her.  It  was 
quite  another  to  find  out  that  the  whole  town  knew. 
As  far  as  Phoebe  was  concerned,  finding  that  out 
simply  spoiled  everything. 

And  now,  every  week-day  morning,  she  and 
Uncle  John  spent  three  hours  together  in  the  library. 
All  of  the  three  hours  were  not  spent  in  actual 
study;  that  is  to  say,  whenever  Uncle  John  got 
impatient  and  wanted  to  turn  to  his  own  work,  he 
permitted  Phoebe  to  make  herself  comfortable  on 
the  big,  old  library  couch  and  read  whatever  she 
liked.  With  the  awakening  of  her  emotions,  what 
Phoebe  liked  to  read  about  was  love.  She  found 


.112  Phoebe 

some  books  by  "The  Duchess".  They  were  Uncle 
Bob's,  and  they  were  full  of  romance.  Phoebe  de- 
voured them — while  across  the  room  the  clergy- 
man toiled  over  a  sermon  that  was,  perhaps,  con- 
cerned with  Peter's  wife's  mother. 

And  every  week-day  afternoon  Phoebe  went 
driving.  With  such  an  unvarying  program,  she  was 
able  to  live  up  to  her  determination  that  she  would 
never  permit  herself — in  that  little,  mean,  gossiping 
town — to  make  a  single  friend.  And  certainly  not 
now,  since  she  knew  that  the  whole  town  knew ! 

But  she  had  scarcely  made  up  her  mind  to  re- 
main cut  off  completely  from  everyone  (she  would 
punish  them  all ! )  when  she  made  two  friends.  And 
both — though  each  was  so  different  from  the  other 
— soon  became  very  dear  to  her. 

It  was  on  a  Saturday  afternoon  that  the  first 
came.  Phoebe  and  Uncle  Bob  were  just  back  from 
a  drive,  and  were  busy,  concocting  a  lemonade  in 
the  butler's  pantry,  when  Sophie  came  bursting  in 
upon  them.  The  very  momentum  of  her  entrance, 
the  queer,  excited  look  of  her  (even  her  hair 
seemed  to  be  lifting),  told  Phoebe  that  something 
unusual  had  happened. 

"Judge!"  whispered  Sophie. 


Phoebe  113 

He  glanced  up,  half  a  lemon  in  eacH  hand,  and 
damp  sugar  on  his  face.  Phoebe  had  pinned  one 
of  Sophie's  aprons  about  him.  He  looked  comical 
enough  for  the  "movies" ! 

"Miss  Ruth,"  announced  Sophie. 

Uncle  Bob  stared,  as  if  scarcely  comprehending; 
then  dropped  the  lemon  halves,  hastily  wiped  his 
face  on  the  apron,  which  Sophie  unfastened,  took 
Phcebe  by  the  hand  and  started  for  the  sitting- 
room. 

"Who  is  Miss  Ruth  ?"  asked  Phcebe  as  they  went. 

Uncle  Bob  smiled  down  at  her.  But  he  did  not 
seem  to  see  her. 

There  was  a  slender  young  woman  with  Grandma 
in  the  sitting  room.  She  had  on  a  dress  that  fell 
in  soft  folds,  was  mistily  gray,  wide-tucked,  and  cut 
out  squarely  at  the  neck  to  show  a  strong  round 
throat.  In  her  hands  the  visitor  held  a  sun-hat, 
black,  with  a  sprinkling  of  forget-me-nots. 

"Ruth?"  said  Uncle  Bob  in  greeting.  And  the 
hand  that  held  Phoebe's  trembled. 

"I'm  here  with  more  Court  troubles,"  explained 
Miss  Ruth.  She  was  looking  at  Phcebe.  Her  eyes 
were  the  color  of  the  flowers  on  her  hat. 


ii4  Phoebe 

"My  dear," — it  was  Grandma  speaking — "this  is 
Jim's  little  girl." 

Phoebe  went  forward  then.  Gravely  she  took 
Miss  Ruth's  hand,  and  made  the  quick  dipping 
curtsey  that  Mother  had  taught  her.  "How  do  you 
do,"  she  said  politely. 

Miss  Ruth  bent  and  touched  Phoebe's  cheek  with 
her  lips.  "I've  wanted  to  meet  you — often,"  she 
said.  Then,  as  if  with  sudden  feeling,  she  drew 
Phoebe  to  her,  and  held  her  close. 

The  welcome  tenderness  of  it,  the  embracing 
arms,  the  soft,  fragrant  dress — it  was  all  like 
Mother  to  Phoebe.  Her  eyes  swam.  She  reached 
up,  clasping  her  arms  about  Miss  Ruth.  "Oh,  why 
haven't  you  ever  been  here  before?"  she  asked. 

"Ha!  ha!"  laughed  Uncle  Bob,  triumphantly. 
"That's  it,  Phoebe!  Scold  her!  Scold  her!" 

Miss  Ruth  seemed  embarrassed.  "I'm  so  busy 
always,  dear,"  she  answered.  "But  you'll  come  to 
see  me?"  Then  to  Uncle  Bob,  "Judge,  it's  about 
the  Botts  case  again."  And  to  Grandma,  "Your  son 
will  wish  his  Probation  Officer  didn't  live  so  close, 
bothering  him  of  a  Saturday  like  this." 

"M-m-m !"  commented  Uncle  Bob.  He  gave  her 
a  long,  grave  look. 


Phoebe  115 

"I've  just  had  a  telephone  message  from  the 
Botts's  nearest  neighbor,"  went  on  Miss  Ruth. 
"And  I  felt  sure  you'd  want  to  do  something  about 
it  before  Monday.  Judge,  Mrs.  Botts  has  been 
whipping  Manila  again." 

"Oh,  that  woman!"  scolded  Uncle  Bob. 

"She's  a  step-mother,  isn't  she,  Bob?"  inquired 
Grandma.  There  was  a  gay  twinkle  in  her  old 
eyes. 

"She's  a  bad  step-mother,"  he  answered.  He 
went  over  to  her,  leaned  down  and  gave  her  a  re- 
sounding kiss.  "But,  you  see,  a  Judge  is  likely  to 
hear  only  of  the  bad  ones." 

"Mr.  Botts  isn't  keeping  his  word,"  reminded 
Miss  Ruth. 

"I  know,"  returned  Uncle  Bob.  "He  promised 
to  put  a  stop  to  any  more  whipping.  What  do  you 
think  we  ought  to  do?" 

"Well," — Miss  Ruth  hesitated — "of  course,  you 
may  not  agree,  but  I've  been  wondering  if  Manila 
wouldn't  like  to  leave  home." 

"Suppose  you  ask  her,  Ruth." 

"Or  if  I  might  send  her  here  to  see  you." 

"That's  a  good  idea.  It'll  keep  her  away  from 
the  Court  House,  poor  youngster." 


n6  Phoebe 

Miss  Ruth  made  as  if  to  go  then.  But  "What 
do  you  think  of  our  young  lady?"  he  wanted  to 
know. 

"Just — just  what  I  hoped  she'd  be  like,"  Miss 
Ruth  answered,  almost  as  if  to  herself.  She  held 
Phoebe  away  from  her  a  little.  "You  will  come 
sometimes  to  see  me,  Phoebe?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"I  live  very  close." 

"And— and  you'll  come  to  see  me  ?"  asked  Phoebe, 
eagerly.  What  was  it  about  Miss  Ruth  that  she 
liked  so  well?  Miss  Ruth  was  grave.  Her  look 
was  tender.  The  hands  that  held  Phoebe's  were 
firm  and  cool. 

"If  you  want  me  to  come " 

"Oh,  I  do!" 

"Then  Til  come." 

Phoebe  rose  upon  tiptoe.  "Could  you  come  after 
supper,  maybe?"  she  asked.  "That's — that's  al- 
ways the  lonesomest  time." 

Miss  Ruth  nodded.  "And  perhaps  Grandma 
will  let  us  have  a  good  talk  together  upstairs, 
before  you  go  to  sleep — will  you,  Mrs.  Blair?" 

"Phoebe  loves  stories,"  answered  Phoebe's  grand- 
mother. "She  misses  the  moving-pictures  she  used 


Phoebe  117 

to  see.  And  so  if  you'd  tell  her  a  story  some  even- 
ing, Ruth, " 

"Or,"  put  in  Phoebe,  quickly,  "if  you  know  some 
songs — if  you'd  sing  to  me,  like  mother  used  to 
sing.  I— I  like  that." 

"I'll  come."  Miss  Ruth  kissed  Phcebe  again. 
"But  you've  Grandma,  and  Uncle  John,  and  Uncle 
Robert,  and — and  your  father " 

Phcebe  raised  an  eager  face.  "I'd  like  to  have 
you,  too.  Because," — her  voice  faltered — "oh,  it 
takes  an  awful  lot  of  love  to — to  make  up  for  my 
mother." 

"I  won't  fail  to  come."  Miss  Ruth  left  then,  and 
Phcebe,  with  Uncle  Bob  beside  her,  stood  at  the 
wide  glass  door  of  the  sitting-room,  watching  the 
gray  dress  flutter  its  way,  mistily,  across  the  lawn  to 
the  driveway  gate. 

"Well,  little  Phcebe?"  said  the  Judge.  He  had 
her  hand,  and  he  squeezed  it. 

Phcebe  understood.  "Uncle  Bob,"  she  confided, 
"I  like  her.  And  I  wish  she  lived  here  right  with 
us." 

Judge  Blair  nodded.  "Ah,  that's  what  I've  been 
saying,"  he  answered;  "yes,  I've  been  saying  that 
for  years,  and  years — and  years." 


CHAPTER  XI 

PHCEBE  thought  about  that,  wondering1  what 
Uncle  Bob  meant.  Something  kept  her  from  asking 
him.  Was  it  the  strange  look  on  his  face  as  he 
watched  Miss  Ruth  go?  Or  was  it  the  way  in 
which  he  went  out,  hands  stuffed  in  pockets,  head 
down,  grave — curiously  unlike  his  usual  smiling 
self?  And  how  did  he  want  Miss  Ruth  to  live  at 
Grandma's?  As  a  sort  of  helper,  like  Sophie? 
That  was  not  likely.  Perhaps  Miss  Ruth  boarded 
nearby,  and  Uncle  Bob  wanted  her  to  board  at 
the  Blair  house.  Phoebe  made  up  her  mind  to  ask 
Sophie,  source  of  all  confidential  information.  She 
stored  up  Uncle  Bob's  last  words  so  that  she  could 
not  fail  to  remember  them:  "Yes,  I've  been  say- 
ing that  for  years,  and  years, — and  years!' 

But  before  her  opportunity  came  to  question 
Sophie,  and  while  she  was  still  watching  out  in  the 
direction  Miss  Ruth  had  gone,  she  saw  a  strange 
little  figure  coming  across  the  grass — coming  slow- 
ly, in  fact  almost  sidling,  with  glances  up  at  the 

118 


Phoebe  119 

higher  windows  of  the  house,  and  those  formidable 
gingerbread  turrets. 

At  first  Phoebe  was  sure  that  it  was  a  boy,  all 
dressed  up  grotesquely,  as  New  York  boys  dressed 
themselves  every  Thanksgiving  Day.  For  surely 
(the  figure  was  close  now)  no  young  person  ever 
could  have  real  hair  that  was  so  red,  or  wear  a 
hat,  except  in  fun,  that  was  so  queer  and  green. 
And  then  the  dress — too  loose,  and  too  long.  And 
the  shoes — !  So  large! 

Suddenly  Phoebe's  heart  gave  a  leap.  It  was  not 
a  dressed-up  boy:  It  was  a  girl!  "A  girl  in  dis- 
guise!" concluded  Phoebe,  excitedly,  with  moving- 
picture  plots  springing  to  her  mind.  "And  she's 
flying  from  the  enemy!" 

The  girl  halted  at  a  little  distance,  fearfully. 
Then  Phoebe  went  out  to  meet  her,  and  also  halted. 
The  two  looked  at  each  other. 

"Won't  you  come  in?"  asked  Phoebe  at  last,  po- 
litely. 

The  girl  hung  her  head. 

"Come  on  in,"  persisted  Phoebe.  "Nobody's 
going  to  hurt  you."  She  turned  and  led  the  way, 
and  the  girl  followed. 

She  was  about  Phoebe's  own  age,  but  pale,  and 


I2O  Phoebe 

looked  ill- fed  and  unhappy.  Her  eyes  were  so  light 
a  gray  that  they  seemed  colorless,  and  milky.  Her 
under-jaw  had  a  way  of  dropping.  Her  hands  were 
soiled,  and  red. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid,  little  girl,"  declared 
Phoebe,  when  they  were  in  the  sitting-room,  and  the 
door  to  the  lawn  was  shut.  "You  just  tell  me  what 
you  want." 

But  the  other  seemed  tongue-tied.  Her  mouth 
was  open,  but  not  a  word  came  forth.  She  fidgeted, 
and  a  blush  suffused  her  many  freckles,  clothing 
them  from  sight. 

"Now,  what  do  you  want?"  encouraged  Phoebe 
again.  "Please.  Just  say  it  right  out" 

"Th'  Judge," — with  not  a  movement  of  the  lips. 

Phcebe  stared^  She  understood.  Uncle  .Bob, 
reigning  over  the  local  Juvenile  Court,  looked  after 
children  exclusively.  Here,  helpless,  homely,  and 
pathetic,  was  one  of  his  charges.  "Have  you  been 
a  bad  child?"  she  asked  sorrowfully. 

"Naw." 

"Then  what — what  have  you  been?'? 

"L-1-licked!" 

"Oh!"     Phoebe  went  to  her,  taking  one  of  the 


Phoebe  121 

red  hands,  and  drew  her  to  a  chair.  "You  poor 
little  girl!  Here!  Sit  down.  Now  tell  me.  Who 
licked  you?" 

The  pale  eyes  became  suddenly  alive  with  fear. 
The  drooping  mouth  tightened,  and  trembled. 
"Step-mother!" 

"Oh!"  cried  Phcebe  again.  "You— so  you've  got 
a  step!" 

"Uh-huh." 

Phcebe  sat  down  and  regarded  her  visitor,  mar- 
veling at  her.  A  step-mother — a  cruel  step-mother 
who  beat  and  tortured,  exactly  like  the  step-mothers 
in  the  movies!  "Then  you're  Manila  Botts,"  she 
declared. 

"Yop." 

Somehow,  Phcebe,  hearing  the  name  from  Miss 
Ruth,  had  thought  of  Manila  Botts  as  some  one 
tall  and  plump — quite  a  grown  person.  And  here — ! 
"Tell  me  about  your  step-mother,"  she  bade. 

"She's  a  woman,"  ventured  Manila,  helplessly. 

"Well?" 

"And  she's  married  to  my  father — but  she  don't 
like  him." 

"I  know."    Phcebe  nodded  sadly.    "They  sit  at 


122  Phoebe 

the  table,  and  don't  speak,  and  don't  kiss  each  othei 
good-night." 

"But  she  spends  all  Paw's  money,"  went  on  Ma- 
nila.  "And  she  hits  me.  Look !"  She  drew  up  a 
loose  sleeve.  There  on  the  thin  arm  was  a  dark 
welt. 

Phoebe  gasped. 

Manila,  pleased  with  the  effect  she  had  produced, 
warmed  to  further  details.  "She  hits  me  with  a 
piece  of  harness.  It's  half  of  a  tug.  And  once 
she  hurt  me  so  bad  that  I  went  to  Court." 

"But  doesn't  your  daddy  help  you?"  demanded 
Phoebe. 

"Nope.  Just  boozes"  She  lowered  the  sleeve 
resignedly. 

Phoebe  gave  a  quick  look  around.  Then,  "It's 
almost  like  a  picture  I  once  saw :"  she  said ;  "Her 
Terrible  Sin.  There  was  a  woman  in  it  who  got 
whipped  by  a  man  who  was  tipsy." 

"Gosh !"  breathed  Manila.  "And  what' 11  you  do 
if  you  get  a  step?" 

Phoebe  sat  back.  "Me?"  she  demanded,  and' 
swallowed. 

Manila  nodded. 


Phoebe  123 

Phoebe  said  nothing.  She  felt  her  heart  swell- 
ing; her  ears  sang.  She  wanted  to  take  hold  of 
Manila  and  pound  at  her  with  a  fist.  She  hated 
her !  She  hated ! 

Sophie  came  in.  "The  Judge  is  in  the  lib'ry, 
Manila,"  she  said,  somewhat  reprovingly.  As  Ma- 
nila rose,  Sophie  took  her  by  a  shoulder  and  led 
her  hallward. 

But  Phoebe  stayed  where  she  was.  A  storm 
was  raging  in  her  breast.  Sophie  had  suggested 
a  step- father,  and  Phcebe  had  been  able  to  laugh. 
Did  she  not  know  Mother? — dear,  beautiful,  de- 
voted Mother,  who  would  no  more  think  of  doing 
anything  that  could  hurt  her  small  daughter  than 
of — than  of — well,  committing  the  most  awful 
crime:  murder,  or  stealing,  or  setting  some  house 
on  fire.  Why,  who  would  think  of  giving  the  mat- 
ter of  a  step- father  even  a  second  thought?  Be- 
sides, the  "movies"  never  pictured  wicked,  cruel 
step-fathers.  There  were,  probably,  step- fathers 
in  existence.  Even  so,  whoever  heard  of  their 
being  undesirable? 

But  this  was  different.  Soon  that  father  so  dear 
to  Phoebe  would  be  entirely  free — it  was  Mother 


124  [Phoebe 

who  was  setting  him  free.     (And  this  gave  Phoebe 
at  once  a  sense  of  her  mother's  generosity.)     Once 

free ! 

"O-o-oh !"  she  gasped,  and  covered  her  face. 


CHAPTER  XII 

Her  father — hers!    And  some  woman! 

It  hurt  Phoebe  cruelly.  And  the  pain  was  a  double 
one.  For  she  suffered  on  her  own  account,  im- 
agining a  nebulous  figure  intrude  itself  between 
her  and  the  father  she  loved  with  such  a  feeling 
of  absolute  possession;  and  she  suffered  for  her 
mother.  A  strange  woman  in  that  mother's  place ! 
— in  that  dear  New  York  nest,  at  the  dainty,  round 
table  in  the  cosy  dining-room,  in  Mother's  corner 
of  the  davenport  before  the  open  fire  of  the  little 
drawing-room!  The  pictures  that  Manila's  fore- 
boding called  up  succeeded  one  another  upon  her 
mind's  eye  as  if  it  were  the  screen  of  a  moving- 
picture  theatre. 

That  was  it!  She  understood  all  that  Manila's 
suggestion  might  mean  because  she  knew  step-moth- 
ers so  well!  Yes,  she  could  even  remember  cer- 
tain ones  in  the  movies,  though  not  clearly.  One 
fact  she  was  sure  of :  'All  step-mothers  were  cruel ! 

Miserable  as  she  was,  she  did  not  think  of  seek- 
125 


ia6  Phoebe 

ing  her  father,  of  telling  him  what  she  feared,  and 
how  hurt  she  was.  She  felt  angry  toward  him ;  she 
resented  the  way  he  was  acting!  Why  should  he 
think  of  another  wife?  And  Mother  away  out 
there  alone! 

Phoebe  went  up  to  her  room.  Facing  this  new, 
threatening  trouble,  she  wanted  seclusion.  But  not 
seclusion  to  weep.  Her  eyes  were  dry,  and  her 
head  was  up.  This  was  a  thing  that  called  for  ac- 
tion— action !  She  must  do  something !  She  must ! 
And  what? 

She  knew !  Standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
talking  to  herself  under  her  breath,  suddenly  it  came 
to  her.  She  would  thwart  any  plan  of  her  father's 
to  marry  again!  Did  not  people  always  thwart 
other  people's  plans  in  the  moving-pictures?  Well, 
then,  she  would  thwart. 

From  that  hour  forward  she  began  to  watch  her 
father,  secretly,  jealously.  And  she  discovered 
things  about  him  that  made  her  uneasy.  Why  did 
he  always  have  that  far-away  look  in  his  eyes? 
Why  did  he  keep  his  lips  shut  so  tight,  with  that 
knotting  in  the  jaws  that  told  her  how  hard  his 
teeth  were  set  together?  Why  did  he  walk  the 
dull  red  carpet  of  Grandma's  sitting-room  so  often 


Phoebe  127 

and  so  nervously?  She  had  seen  "movie"  heroes 
act  like  that.  Were  all  these  signs  that  Daddy  was 
in  love? 

She  made  up  her  mind  to  hunt  Manila,  and  ask 
her  just  how  her  father  had  acted  before  he  mar- 
ried that  awful  step-mother. 

Meanwhile,  seeing  these  things  which  at  least 
conveyed  worry,  she  came  to  forget  herself  in  con- 
cern over  her  father.  He  was  unhappy.  Yet  not 
about  Mother,  for  it  was  clear  that  he  did  not  care 
for  Mother.  Then  of  course  he  was  suffering  about 
someone  else.  She  must  try  to  distract  his  thoughts 
to  herself.  She  would  redouble  her  tenderness  to- 
ward him.  She  would  spend  more  time  with  him, 
kiss  him  oftener. 

During  the  days  that  immediately  followed,  there 
came  into  her  face  and  voice  and  manner  a  sweet 
concern  toward  him.  She  took  to  little  attentions, 
such  as  finding  his  hat  for  him  when  he  left  the 
house,  or  hanging  it  up  when  he  came  in;  she 
lighted  his  cigarettes;  she  searched  for  bits  of  lint, 
or  small  lengths  of  thread,  on  his  coat.  In  other 
words,  young  and  slim-legged  as  she  was, — a  baby 
still  in  most  ways — she  yet  was  assuming  toward 
her  father  the  role  of  little  mother:  she  was  yearn- 


128  Phoebe 

ing  over  him.  Oh,  her  Daddy!  Her  dear,  dear1 
Daddy! 

After  a  time,  her  worry  about  him  lessened 
somewhat.  Few  women  came  to  the  house,  and 
these  were  mostly  elderly.  And  her  father  went 
out  scarcely  at  all — never  in  the  evenings.  If  he 
and  she  walked  together,  he  often  met  women  whom 
he  knew,  and  bowed  to  them,  smiling.  If  he  seemed 
inclined  to  stop  for  a  chat,  Phoebe  was  quick  to  urge 
him  on — first  of  all  because  she  would  not  let  her- 
self be  cordial  to  anyone  in  the  town,  and,  second, 
because  any  woman  might  be  the  woman. 

But  her  father  never  cared  to  linger  when  she 
pulled  a  little  at  his  arm.  Hopefully  she  had  to 
admit  that  he  did  not  seem  to  like  any  particular 
person. 

Then  one  day  real  fear  came  to  her — with  a 
definite  object  for  her  jealousy.  By  chance  she  and 
her  father  stopped  at  the  drug-store  down  the  street 
— the  drug-store  to  which  she  loved  to  hop  and  skip, 
the  while  she  nonchalantly  bounced  the  rubber  ball. 
This  day  when  she  called  for  her  ice-cream  soda, 
the  pretty  young  woman  came  forward  as  usual  to 
wait  on  her.  The  pretty  young  woman  seemed  to 
know  Phoebe's  father  well — very  well  indeed — al- 


Phoebe  129 

most  too  well!  She  smiled  across  the  counter  at 
him:  she  said,  "How  are  you?"  familiarly:  she 
even  called  him  "Jim". 

Phoebe  ate  her  ice-cream  soda  with  a  troubled 
heart.  Her  father  did  not  eat  anything.  He  talked 
with  the  pretty  young  woman.  And  the  latter  urged 
more  ice-cream  upon  Phcebe  when  the  tall  glass  was 
half  empty.  That  aroused  Phoebe's  suspicions.  She 
declined  a  second  helping.  She  understood  the  pur- 
pose behind  a  second  helping!  "She  wants  to  get 
in  with  me,"  Phcebe  thought.  "That's  because  she 
likes  Daddy." 

She  left  some  of  her  soda  in  order  to  get  him 
out  of  the  store  and  away.  And  she  came  to  hate 
the  drug-store  young  woman.  Once  at  the  table 
she  made  fun  of  her — of  her  teeth.  Her  father 
said  nothing,  even  seemed  not  to  hear.  Grandma 
said  "Darling!"  reprovingly.  But  Phcebe  cared 
nothing  about  the  reproof.  There  was  something 
at  stake — something  terribly  important.  She  de- 
termined never  to  go  near  that  drug-store  again. 

This  was  more  than  mere  thwarting ;  already  the 
budding  woman  was  plotting  against  a  rival ! 

Next,  she  made  a  practice,  when  her  father  went 
down  town,  to  go  with  him  as  far  as  that  drug- 


130  Phoebe 

store  and  see  him  well  past  it!  And  when  she 
had  kissed  him  good-bye  at  some  corner,  she  re- 
turned with  no  glance  toward  that  counter  which 
had  always  yielded  such  generous  sodas  and  sun- 
daes. 

One  day  Phoebe  got  a  fright.  The  drug-store 
young  woman  ran  out  to  them,  to  intercept  them. 
Doctor  Blair,  she  said,  wanted  to  speak  to  Phoebe's 
father  on  the  drug-store  telephone.  Phoebe  was 
forced  to  accompany  her  father  into  the  place.  But 
she  went  warily,  and  she  declined  to  have  a  soda. 
She  came  away  with  fear.  And  when  she  was 
home  once  more  she  wrote  her  father  a  note. 

"Dear  Daddy''  it  ran,  '7  don't  like  the  girl  at  the 
drug-store.  You  know  what  I  mean.  I  hate  her,  1 
hate  her,  I  hate  her.  Her  grammar  is  bad.  She 
says  don't  instead  of  doesn't,  like  Sophie.  Darling, 
darling  Daddy." 

She  did  not  give  him  the  note.  It  was  fortunate 
that  she  did  not.  For  the  very  next  day,  as  she 
came  homeward  after  seeing  her  father  safe  be- 
yond that  dangerous  corner,  here  came  the  object 
of  her  hate.  The  girl  was  pushing  before  her  a 
white  perambulator.  In  the  carriage  was  a  big 
rosy  baby. 


Phoebe  131 

Phoebe  would  have  passed  girl  and  baby  without 
a  look.  But  the  former  halted  her.  "Oh,  Phoebe, 
you've  never  seen  my  little  son,"  she  said. 

Phoebe  halted,  wide  of  eyes  and  mouth.  Son? 
That  meant  marriage — a  husband! 

"My  mother-in-law  takes  care  of  him,"  explained 
the  drug-store  girl.  (But  of  course  she  was  a  girl 
no  longer.  She  was  a  grown  woman — if  she  was 
married  and  had  a  baby.) 

"He's  nice,"  said  Phoebe;  "—like  you." 

After  that  she  often  went  with  her  father  to 
have  ice-cream  sodas  at  the  drug-store.  And  al- 
ways, in  his  hearing,  she  asked  after  the  baby  and 
after  the  baby's  father,  and  she  rather  prided  her- 
self on  having  carried  out  this  particular  case  of 
thwarting  very  well  indeed. 

But  with  the  young  drug-store  woman  out  of  the 
way,  she  still  had  no  peace  of  mind.  For  now 
there  rose  up  in  her  day-dreams  the  vision  of  a 
wholly  imaginary  step-mother.  The  visionary  figure 
was  no  longer  nebulous.  And  it  was  forbidding. 
Friends  of  her  own  age,  school-life,  even  the  sym- 
pathetic companionship  of  a  woman  she  could  have 
trusted,  would  have  driven  the  vision  from  her 
thoughts.  But  in  that  adult  household,  where  all  of 


132  Phoebe 

her  little  confidences  were  given  to  no  one,  her  mor- 
bidity grew  until  the  figure  she  had  imagined  came 
to  seem  to  be  alive. 

It  met  her  at  quick,  dim  turns  in  the  big  lower 
hall,  or  on  the  dark  stair-landing.  It  lurked  in  her 
clothes-closet,  usurping  the  place  of  the  Other 
Thing,  which  now  disappeared.  Worst  of  all,  she 
could  imagine  the  figure  in  her  father's  room! 

Curiously  enough,  it  bore  no  likeness  to  any  of 
the  screen  step-mothers  Phoebe  had  seen.  This 
imaginary  step-mother  was  tall,  bony,  heavy-shoul- 
dered and  long-armed,  with  sullen  eyes  and  graying 
brown  hair  combed  straight  back  to  show  a  wrinkled 
brow.  What  the  rest  of  the  face  was  like,  Phoebe 
never  imagined.  It  was  always  the  brow  and  the 
eyes  that  caught  her  fleet  glance  as  she  hurried  by. 

That  her  father  would  scarcely  choose  such  a 
woman  to  be  his  second  wife,  somehow  never  oc- 
curred to  Phoebe.  Had  not  Botts,  poor  liquor-sod- 
dened,  but  kindly,  soul,  acquired  Mrs.  Botts  when 
unquestionably  he  did  not  want  her?  Such  things 
happened  to  widowers  and  divorced  men.  They 
were  matrimonially  helpless.  And  the  vision  that 
Phoebe's  fear  called  up  was  of  all  things  formidable, 


Phoebe  133 

and  overbearing,  yet  silent — with  the  silence  that 
means  power. 

Phoebe  trembled  when  she  thought  of  her,  and 
at  those  certain  dim  places  where  the  figure  met 
her  she  felt  an  awful  prickling  of  the  skin. 

Her  face  grew  gaunt  Her  nose  seemed  pinched. 
Her  cheeks  lost  some  of  their  color.  So  that  Uncle 
Bob  talked  about  a  tonic. 

But  Phoebe  did  not  want  a  tonic.  "Mother  doesn't 
believe  in  medicine  for  children,"  she  declared. 
"She'd  like  it  better  if  I  didn't  take  any.  Wouldn't 
she,  Daddy?" 

Her  father  looked  at  her  keenly.  Then  he  tucked 
her  under  his  arm.  "I  want  a  talk  with  my  baby," 
he  declared.  They  went  into  Grandma's  room  to- 
gether. And  no  one  followed  them.  Evidently  her 
father  had  something  very  particular  to  say. 

He  had.  For  when  he  was  seated,  he  drew  her  to 
him,  and  looked  up  into  her  face — anxiously !  "I've 
got  something  important  to  tell  you,"  he  said. 

"About  Mother?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

"N-n-ot  exactly." 

"  As  he  looked  away,  plainly  embarrassed,  a  great 
fear  came  to  her.    What  Manila  had  said  was  com- 


134  Phoebe 

ing  true — and  he  was  about  to  confess  it!  A  step- 
mother ! 

She  longed  then  to  kneel  beside  him,  to  beg  him 
to  promise  her  that  he  would  never  marry,  to  tell 
him  she  could  not  bear  it.  But  she  held  back. 

"No,  it's  just  that  I  have  to  take  quite  a  trip," 
her  father  went  on. 

"West?"  she  cried.  She  turned  his  face.  Her 
eyes  were  shining. 

"To  South  America — Peru/'  he  answered. 

"Oh."  She  backed  a  little,  trying  to  adjust  her- 
self to  the  news.  Once  she  had  seen  him  go  on  such 
trips  with  little  or  no  concern.  Now  the  thought 
of  his  leaving  hurt  keenly. 

"I  sha'n't  be  gone  long,"  he  said  comfortingly. 
And  kissed  her. 

"Daddy, — while  you're  gone — may  I  go  West? 
To  Mother?" 

"I'm  afraid — not — just  right  away." 

"But  if  you  go — to  tell  Mother  good-bye."  She 
was  pressing  the  point.  For  one  thing  she  wanted 
to  know  before  he  went  the  truth  from  him  about 
the  divorce. 

"I— I  sha'n't  be  going." 


Phoebe  135 

Her  eyes  stared  into  his.  "Daddy!  You  and 
Mother  are  divorced !" 

"Phoebe!"  he  gasped,  plainly  astounded. 

"Did  you  steal  me  away  from  Mother?"  she  de- 
manded. 

"Has  someone  told  you  that?" 

She  nodded. 

He  shook  his  head.  "Oh,  my  little  girl !"  he  said 
sadly. 

"Daddy !  It  isn't  true !"  Now  she  knelt,  looking 
up  at  him,  imploring. 

"All  your  life,  Phoebe,"  he  began,  "I've  kept  one 
thought  in  front  of  me  always :  your  happiness.  I 
want  you  to  believe  that " 

"I  do!" 

"Whatever  I've  done — even  if  it  doesn't  turn  out 
right — remember  that  I  never  considered  myself, 
only  my  daughter.  I  brought  you  here,  where  you 
miss  your  Mother,  when  I  knew  your  little  heart 
would  ache.  Oh,  Phoebe," — he  bent  toward  her 
lovingly — "you  used  to  notice,  didn't  you,  that  in 
New  York,  when  Daddy  left  the  apartment,  he 
kissed  only  you  good-bye?" 

"Yes." 


136  Phoebe 

"And  for  a  long  time  you  haven't  seen  Daddy 
and  Mother  go  anywhere  together." 

"Daddy,"  she  whispered,  with  a  quick  look  be- 
yond him,  lest  she  be  overheard,  "don't  you  like  my 
mother?" 

"Ah,  Phoebe!"  He  shook  his  head  again,  sigh- 
ing. "Ah,  if  I  could  only  spare  my  little  girl!" 

"Daddy!"  she  cried,  her  arms  suddenly  about 
him.  "Dear,  dear  Daddy!" 

"Phoebe,  you  must  try  to  understand,"  he  coun- 
seled; "and  take  it  all  just  like  the  little  woman  you 
are.  Then  you  and  I  will  decide  what's  best — no- 
body else.  It's  your  happiness  I'll  think  of — just 
you!" 

She  felt  now  that  she  was  to  hear  the  truth. 
She  was  ready  to  confide  in  him  all  her  fears  of 
a  step-mother — even  her  jealousy;  ready  to  say  if, 
above  all  things,  he  wanted  her  happiness,  then  he 
could  give  her  that  by  putting  no  new  wife  in  her 
mother's  place. 

But  her  father  got  no  further  with  what  he 
plainly  intended  to  say  to  her.  And  Phoebe  was 
not  able  to  open  her  young  heart  to  him.  For  their 
conference  was  broken  in  upon  by  Sophie,  who  en- 
tered, smiling,  telegram  in  hand. 


Phoebe  137 

"Boy  wants  a'  answer,  Mr.  Jim,"  she  announced. 

Phoebe's  father  took  the  yellow  envelope  with  a 
trace  of  irritation  at  being  interrupted. 

"Oh,  Daddy,  is  it  from  Mother?"  Phoebe  ques- 
tioned. 

He  did  not  answer.  The  telegram  was  open  in 
his  hand.  He  was  reading  it,  and  his  hand  was 
shaking. 

"Wait!"  he  bade,  as  Sophie  turned  to  go. 

"Is  it?— Oh,  Daddy!"  pleaded  Phcebe.  She  saw 
with  alarm  that  his  face  had  gone  suddenly  white. 

He  rose,  crushing  the  wire  and  thrusting  it  into 
a  pocket.  "Where  is  my  mother?"  he  asked  the 
girl. 

"In  the  dinin'-room." 

In  obedience  to  his  gesture,  Sophie  went  out. 
He  turned  to  Phoebe.  "I  must  see  Uncle  Bob,"  he 
said  quietly.  Then,  leaning  to  lift  her  to  her  feet, 
"And  you  go  into  the  garden  for  a  little  while,  till 
Daddy  wants  you."  He  kissed  her. 

Phcebe  asked  no  other  question.  She  was  used 
to  mystery,  to  being  bewildered.  But  she  knew 
something  had  happened — something  out  of  the 
ordinary.  It  was  no  business  telegram  that  could 


138  Phoebe 

drive  the  color  from  her  father's  face  and  set  his 
fingers  to  trembling.  As  she  walked  over  the  lawn 
she  reflected  that,  after  all,  everyday  life  very  close- 
ly resembled  the  "movies".. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IT  was  Grandma  who  came  for  Phoebe.  And 
the  latter  saw  that  there  was  no  smile  on  the  kind 
old  face,  and  that  Grandma's  head  was  shaking  very 
hard.  Hand  in  hand,  silently,  the  two  went  into 
the  library. 

Uncle  John  was  there,  leaning  against  the  man- 
tel. Though  his  look  was  lowered,  Phoebe  knew 
that  he  was  angry.  Uncle  Bob  stood  nearby,  hands 
in  pockets.  He  nodded  Phcebe  a  greeting.  Phcebe's 
father  was  not  there.  And  Phcebe  wondered. 

"Little  old  dumpling,"  said  Uncle  Bob.  She  came 
to  him,  and  he  looked  down  at  her  with  a  tender 
smile. 

"Yes?"  There  was  more  curiosity  than  concern 
in  her  voice. 

"A  telegram  has  just  come  from — from  Ne- 
vada," went  on  Uncle  Bob. 

Her  face  lighted.  Up  came  her  hands,  to  reach 
toward  him  joyously.  "Mother!"  she  breathed. 

He  shook  his  head.     "The  telegram  is  from  a 
139 


140  Phoebe 

Doctor,"  he  answered.  "Your  mother  is — is  pretty 
sick.  She  has  asked  your  daddy  to  come." 

"Oh ! — but — but  you  think  Mother  will  get  well?" 

"Of  course  she  will,"  declared  Uncle  Bob  stoutly. 

The  next  moment,  here  came  Phcebe's  father,  a 
suit-case  in  one  hand,  his  hat  in  the  other.  Be- 
hind him  was  Sophie,  carrying  his  overcoat.  He 
said  nothing,  only  put  down  the  suit-case,  crossed 
to  Phoebe,  and  took  her  hand. 

She  lifted  a  beaming  face  to  his.  "Oh,  Daddy," 
she  said  tremulously.  "Now  I  know  you  and 
Mother  are  not  divorced !" 

He  smiled  at  her.  The  others  moved — started, 
rather.  Phoebe  saw  them  and  heard  them,  and  real- 
ized that  she  had  shocked.  She  reddened. 

"My  little  Phoebe !"  said  her  father,  tenderly. 

She  strove  to  explain  herself,  to  lessen  the  bad 
effect  she  felt  she  had  made  on  the  others.  "I  knew 
you  weren't,"  she  apologized.  "I  didn't  believe  it, 
Daddy.  I'm  sorry  I  said  it  to  you! — Oh,  Daddy, 
take  me  with  you !" 

Her  father  turned  to  his  mother.  But  it  was  Dr. 
Blair  who  spoke.  "No,  Jim !"  he  cried. 

"What  do  you  think,  Bob?"  asked  Phcebe's 
father. 


Phoebe  14* 

Uncle  Bob  shrugged.  "How  can  I  judge  Helen'* 
feelings?"  he  answered,  with  a  trace  of  bitterness. 
"I  have  no  child." 

"Oh,  I  understand  you,  Bob,"  retorted  his  eldest 
brother,  angrily.  "But  you  know" — significantly—^ 
"there  are  occasions  not  proper  for  a  child." 

Phoebe  did  not  understand  what  Uncle  John 
meant.  Evidently  her  father  did;  furthermore,  it 
seemed  to  decide  him.  "Give  me  a  message  for 
Mother,"  he  said  to  Phcebe,  and  drew  her  to  him. 

She  took  her  disappointment  bravely.  "Tell  her 
I  love  her,  Daddy.  And  tell  her  to  come  back  to 
me."  Then,  imploringly,  "Oh,  promise  you'll  bring 
my  mother  back !" 

"I  will  bring  her  back,  darling,"  he  promised. 
"When  Mother  is  better,  we'll  all  try  to  be  happy 
again — for  your  sake."  He  kissed  her,  turned, 
kissed  his  mother,  took  up  the  suit-case,  and  was 
gone. 

Uncle  Bob  followed.  In  one  hand  he  had  a  roll 
of  bills  that  Uncle  John  had  given  him;  with  the 
other  he  searched  a  trouser  pocket. 

When  the  door  shut  behind  Uncle  Bob,  Phcebe 
sat  down,  not  helplessly,  but  she  felt  a  trifle  weak, 


142  Phoebe 

as  if  some  sort  of  a  prop  had  been  taken  out  from 
under  her. 

Her  Uncle  John  was  suddenly  anxious.  "Now, 
you  won't  cry,  will  you,  my  child?"  he  asked. 

"Cry  ?"  she  repeated,  with  a  touch  of  pride.  "Oh, 
no.  I'm  just  saying  to  myself,  over  and  over, 
'Daddy  isn't  divorced  from  my  mother.  And  he'll 
bring  her  back !  He'll  bring  her  back !'  That  makes 
me  so  happy."  She  gulped.  Tears  swam  in  the 
gray-blue  eyes,  but  she  smiled  through  them.  The 
happiest  thought  of  all  she  could  not  mention: 
that  she  might  now  dismiss  forever  the  possibility 
of  having  a  step-mother !  She  would  have  her  own 
mother  again,  and  the  dear  New  York  home,  and 
her  father,  and  Sally,  the  maid,  yes,  and  the  gold- 
fish, and — the  "movies" !  "I — I  wish  I  had  my  old 
doll,"  she  added,  aloud,  but  as  if  to  herself. 

"Your  doll,  darling?"  questioned  Grandma. 

"Isn't  our  little  woman  pretty  big  for  a  doll?" — 
this  from  Uncle  John. 

"It's  just — I — I  want  something  to — to  hold,  and 
love,"  Phcebe  explained. 

"Won't  you  come  to  me,  darling?"  asked 
Grandma. 

"I'm — all  right,"  Phcebe  declared  reassuringly. 


Phoebe  143 

"Uncle  John  loves  you,  Phoebe," — it  was  Uncle 
John  again,  and  he  was  actually  referring  to  himself 
in  precisely  the  way  that  Uncle  Bob  and  her  father 
always  did.  "Uncle  John  never  had  a  little  ~irl, 
so  his  love  goes  out  to  you." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Phcebe. 

Uncle  Bob  had  come  in  while  his  brother  was 
speaking.  He  grinned  at  Phcebe  across  the  room. 
"How  about  the  fat  old  Judge?"  he  demanded.  "Is 
he  any  comfort?" 

She  nodded  vigorously. 

"Oh,  we  all  love  you,  dear,"  quavered  Grandma. 

"I  know,"  acknowledged  Phcebe. 

"Don't  you  love  anybody  but  Daddy  and 
Mother?"  asked  Uncle  Bob. 

"Oh,  yes." 

"I  thought  so!  Grandma,  and  Uncle  John,  and 
a  wee  bit  of  love  for  yours  truly " 

"And  I  love  Miss  Ruth." 

Uncle  Bob  sobered.  He  looked  down,  thought- 
fully. "Miss  Ruth,"  he  repeated.  "Ah,  yes.  Who 
doesn't  love  Miss  Ruth." 

"Manila  loves  her,"  confided  Phcebe.  "Sophie 
told  me  all  about  it.  Miss  Ruth  has  been  so  good 
to  Manila.  She  calls  Miss  Ruth  'Angel'." 


144  Phoebe 

"But  you — why,  you  hardly  know  Miss  Ruth." 
There  was  a  strange  expression  on  Uncle  Bob's 
face.  He  was  looking  at  Phoebe,  but  he  seemed  to 
be  thinking  of  something  far  away.  "Why  do  you 
love  her?" 

Phoebe  put  her  head  on  one  side.  "I  don't  ex- 
actly know  why,"  she  admitted.  In  her  heart,  she 
knew  this  was  not  strictly  true.  There  was  a  rea- 
son for  liking  Miss  Ruth.  It  had  to  do  with 
Phoebe's  jealousy  about  a  step-mother.  Phoebe  had 
noticed  that  of  all  the  women  whom  her  father 
knew,  Miss  Ruth,  alone,  never  stopped  when  he 
met  her,  to  smile  and  make  herself  agreeable,  but 
only  bowed  pleasantly  and  passed  on.  In  other 
words,  Phoebe  had  no  reason  to  fear  Miss  Ruth. 
"She's  nice,"  she  supplemented  now.  "And  I — I 
just  do." 

"I  understand,"  said  Uncle  Bob. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence  then,  of  con- 
strained silence.  Phcebe  felt  that  constraint,  and 
glanced  at  her  grandmother — just  in  time  to  see  a 
finger  lifted  in  warning  at  Uncle  John,  and  a  shake 
of  the  head  that  was  intentional. 

Phcebe  wondered  if  something  was  wrong  about 
Miss  Ruth.  She  made  up  her  mind  to  ask  Sophie. 


Phoebe  1145 

She  thought  of  Sophie  because  the  girl  had  just 
entered,  abruptly.  She  had  a  yellow  envelope  in 
her  hand.  "Here's  another  telegram,  Judge,"  she 
announced. 

Phoebe  rose.  "Mother?"  she  asked,  as  Uncle  Bob 
tore  at  the  envelope. 

"Bob!"  said  Grandma.  She  laid  an  anxious  hand 
on  his  arm. 

From  the  near  distance  sounded  the  long-drawn 
whistle  of  a  train. 

"Listen!"  said  Uncle  John. 

"Read  the  wire,"  urged  Grandma.  "Quick!  We 
can  telephone  the  depot." 

Uncle  Bob  shook  his  head.  "No,  Mother,"  he 
answered.  "If  this  is  from  Helen,  no  matter  what 
it  says  it's  best  that  Jim  should  go."  He  spread  the 
telegram  out. 

Afterwards,  for  the  rest  of  her  life,  Phcebe  was 
destined  never  to  forget  that  minute,  or  the  hours 
and  the  days  that  immediately  followed.  For  the 
minute  was  to  bring  a  great  crisis  into  her  life,  and 
the  hours  and  the  days  were  to  be  filled  with  sor- 
row. 

Uncle  Bob  read  the  wire.  He  took,  Phcebe 
thought,  a  good  while  to  read  it.  And  he  made  a 


146  Phoebe 

curious  face  at  it,  a  grimace  that  seemed  half  comi- 
cal, half  sad.  Then  he  handed  the  paper  to  Grand- 
ma, and  turned  to  lean  on  the  high,  leather-covered 
back  of  the  couch. 

Grandma  read  the  telegram  and — let  it  slip  from 
her  fingers  to  the  floor. 

Ordinarily  Phoebe  would  have  sprung  to  pick  up 
anything  that  Grandma  might  drop.  What  held 
her  back  now?  She  could  not  have  forced  herself 
even  to  touch  that  rectangle  of  paper!  She  only 
stared  down  at  it. 

"Precious  little  girl,"  faltered  Grandma.  She 
sank  to  a  chair — feebly. 

"What ?"  began  Phcebe.  "My— my  moth- 
er  ?" 

"Phoebe,"  said  Uncle  John,  more  tenderly  than 
he  had  ever  spoken  to  her  in  all  the  past  months. 
"Phoebe,  your  mother  is — in  Heaven." 

Phcebe  understood.  The  blood  went  out  of  her 
face.  Something  drove  through  her  body  from  head 
to  foot,  like  a  stroke  of  lightning.  But  though  she 
swayed  a  little,  she  kept  her  foothold.  Hers  was 
a  staunch  little  soul. 

"She's  all  Blair,"  Uncle  Bob  had  once  said  of 
her.  Now  as  she  set  her  teeth  together,  and 


Phoebe  147 

clenched  her  fingers  on  her  palms,  she  was  taking 
her  blow  in  true  Blair  fashion. 

Uncle  Bob  came  round  to  the  front  of  the  couch. 
That  big,  moon-like  face  of  his  was  working  as  he, 
too,  strove  for  control.  He  sat  down,  and  held  out 
his  arms.  "Phoebe!"  he  whispered.  "Little,  little 
Phoebe!" 

She  lifted  a  hand  to  her  face,  brushed  at  a 
cheek,  tried  to  straighten,  swallowed — then  made  to- 
ward him  unsteadily,  and  stumbled  against  his 
breast. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

PHCEBE  knew  a  great  deal  about  death.  Had  she 
not  seen  it  thousands  of  times  on  the  screen,  and 
in  nearly  every  conceivable  form? — by  fire  and  wa- 
ter, by  famine,  by  the  knife  of  the  assassin,  the 
cup  of  the  poisoner,  the  burglar's  automatic,  the 
soldier's  bayonet  Comfortably  seated  beside  her 
mother  or  Sally,  before  a  great  curtain  that  sprang 
into  life  as  the  theatre  darkened,  she  had  even 
watched  the  waging  of  the  Great  War ! 

So  it  was  easy  for  her,  with  her  imagination  thus 
trained  and  stimulated,  to  call  up — once  she  knew 
of  her  mother's  death — such  pictures  in  her  mind 
as  could  augment  to  the  point  of  torture  the  natural 
grief  of  her  fourteen  years.  She  saw  her  mother 
die  alone,  weeping  out  her  last  moments ;  or  she  saw 
a  nurse  and  a  priest  watching  beside  that  distant 
bed.  She  saw  other  things  that  made  her  shudder, 
and  cover  her  eyes,  or  cling  to  whomever  was  near- 
est for  the  comfort  and  sympathy  that  could  drive 

away  such  terrible  visions. 

148 


Phoebe  149 

That  first  week  was  a  week  of  poignant  suffering. 
She  was  not  left  alone  one  moment.  By  day  she 
was  passed,  as  it  were,  from  hand  to  hand  in  the 
household,  taking  her  turn  with  Sophie  in  the 
kitchen  of  a  morning,  spending  the  early  afternoon 
with  Grandma,  the  later  hours  with  Uncle  Bob.  By 
night  she  slept  only  if  someone  sat  beside  her,  in  her 
high,  big  room,  and  held  her  hand.  Sometimes 
Grandma  stayed  the  first  half  of  the  night,  or 
Sophie.  After  midnight  it  was  Uncle  Bob  who 
took  his  place  at  her  pillow. 

There  was  something  particularly  sweet  and  com- 
forting to  Phoebe  about  that  companionship  through 
the  night.  If  she  started  from  troubled  dreams, 
and  cried  out,  always  there  was  an  answering  voice, 
low  and  loving,  to  soothe  her ;  and  there  were  tender 
kisses,  and  in  the  dark  a  hand  would  caress  her 
cheek  or  smooth  her  hair.  Then  she  would  murmur 
a  little,  brokenly,  and  sleep  again. 

She  found  that  a  bereavement  was  not  without 
its  compensations!  For  one  thing,  the  local  news- 
papers had  short,  but  kind,  notices  of  the  death,  in 
the  Far  West,  of  Mrs.  James  Blair.  And  there  were 
references  to  "the  little  daughter,  Phoebe,  now  re- 
siding with  her  grandmother,  Mrs.  John  G.  Blair". 


150  Phoebe 

Never  before  had  Phoebe  seen  her  own  name  in 
print.  She  liked  the  notices.  They  made  her  cry, 
but  they  also  interested  her  strangely. 

Then  there  were  the  black  bands  which  Grandma 
sewed  on  the  left  sleeves  of  Phoebe's  Sunday  and 
second-best  dresses.  Uncle  John  had  opposed  the 
bands  strongly,  and  in  Phoebe's  presence.  He  did 
not  approve  of  the  wearing  of  mourning  by  chil- 
dren. But  Uncle  Bob  thought  otherwise.  "It's  the 
least  we  can  do,"  he  said  firmly.  Grandma  agreed. 
Sophie  thought  a  black  band  was  "awful  swell". 
And  as  for  Phoebe,  a  band  on  her  sleeve  seemed  to 
set  her  apart,  somehow,  to  single  her  out  par- 
ticularly. And  she  liked  to  wear  it.  She  was  almost 
proud  of  it! 

There  were  other  compensations.  People  sent 
her  flowers,  and  candy,  and  Miss  Simpson  wrote 
her  a  note  of  condolence — a  most  polite  note,  which 
Phoebe  tore  up!  And  there  was  another  letter,  a 
"-Round  Robin"  from  eight  of  the  girls  at  Miss 
Simpson's.  Phoebe  was  so  happy  when  it  came — 
happy  in  a  triumphant  way.  This  letter  she  also 
destroyed.  And  she  refused  to  answer  either. 

"They  didn't  like  me  when  my  mother  was  alive," 
she  declared.  "And  they  said  things  about  Mother." 


Phoebe  151 

"Good  for  you,  old  dumpling !"  commended  Uncle 
Bob.  "There's  spunk  for  you !" 

"Don't  encourage  Phoebe  in  that  sort  of  thing!" 
begged  Uncle  John. 

"They're  a  lot  of  hypocrites,"  declared  his 
brother.  "And  this  youngster's  got  sense  enough 
to  know  it.  Why  didn't  they  show  some  sympathy 
over  the  other  thing?" 

"True,"  agreed  Uncle  John.  "For  that  was  worse 
than  death." 

"Exactly.  But  now,  they  begin  their  writing. 
They  were  thinking  of  themselves  when  they — when 
I  took  Phoebe  away  from  there.  And  now  whom 
are  they  thinking  about? — that  Simpson  woman's 
pocket-book!  Confound  them!" 

Phoebe  gave  some  reflection  to  that  short  pas- 
sage between  her  uncles.  What  was  worse  than 
death?  She  knew:  scandal! 

But  the  most  gratifying  thing  that  happened  to 
her  was  a  surprise.  One  night  she  wakened  to 
find  her  hand  in  the  clasp  of  a  hand  smaller  than 
Uncle  Bob's,  softer  than  Sophie's,  firmer  than 
Grandma's.  And  without  being  told  who  it  was, 
she  instantly  guessed.  "Miss  Ruth!"  she  whis- 
pered. 


152  Phcebe 

"It  is  Miss  Ruth,  Phoebe,"  came  the  whisper 
back.  Velvet  lips  touched  her  forehead  and  her 
hair.  An  arm  went  round  her,  to  pat  the  slender 
shoulders  and  tuck  in  the  covers. 

"I  love  you,"  sighed  Phcebe,  contented,  and  slept 
again. 

After  that  Miss  Ruth  continued  to  come.  Often 
in  the  darkness,  if  Phcebe  was  wakeful,  Miss  Ruth 
would  tell  her  stories — wonderful  stories,  about 
princesses  and  knights,  goblins  and  dwarfs  and 
fairies.  These  were  all  new  to  Phoebe,  who  knew 
best  the  more  modern  stories  of  the  films. 

"Why  didn't  you  ever  come  to  see  us  before?" 
Phoebe  wanted  to  know. 

"You  like  me,  don't  you,  dear?"  Miss  Ruth  re- 
turned happily.  It  was  early  morning,  and  Phoebe 
had  just  wakened.  Already  the  room  was  light- 
ening with  the  dawn.  Miss  Ruth  leaned  down  and 
cupped  Phoebe's  cheek  in  the  palm  of  a  hand.  "And 
you're  like  your  father,"  she  added  with  a  tender 
smile. 

Soon  there  came  a  time  when  Phoebe  slept 
through  the  nights  without  waking,  when  watch- 
ers were  no  longer  needed  beside  her  bed.  She 
did  not  understand  how  it  was,  but  she  had  come 


Phoebe  153 

to  feel  two  things:  First,  it  did  not  seem  true 
that  her  mother  was  dead,  and  having  had  no  let- 
ters from  her  mother  since  leaving  New  York,  there 
was  not  even  the  cutting  off  of  messages  to  bring 
home  to  Phcebe  her  loss;  second,  her  mother's  death 
settled  finally  a  question  that  had  vexed  Phoebe 
sorely,  the  troublesome  question  of  what  was  going 
to  happen  once  the  divorce  was  granted.  Now 
Phcebe  knew.  She  had  only  Daddy!  She  would 
go  with  Daddy. 

And  as  this  fact  was  borne  in  upon  her,  she 
remembered  the  matter  that  Manila  had  broached. 
She  recollected,  too,  the  decision  she  herself  had 
made — to  thwart.  "And  I  must  get  at  it,"  she  de- 
clared. "Because  now,  with  Mother  gone  it's 
likely " 

She  wrote  her  father.  From  Nevada  he  had 
gone  on  directly  southward,  and  his  address  was 
such  a  very  strange  one  that  Phcebe  had  her  Uncle 
Bob  direct  her  envelope.  But  no  one  saw  what 
she  wrote.  Though  what  she  wrote  was  not  what 
she  had  fully  intended  to  say.  At  first  she  had  de- 
termined to  tell  him  frankly  that  she  could  never, 
never  bear  to  have  a  step-mother,  who  would  hate 
her,  and  beat  her  with  part  of  a  tug,  and  turn  her 


Phoebe 

father  against  her.  She  ended  by  sending  him  four 
cheerful,  newsy  pages;  only  at  the  end  did  she 
allow  herself  to  touch  remotely  upon  what  was  up- 
permost in  her  mind. 

"Darling  Daddy,"  ran  her  final  paragraph,  "you 
don't  like  anybody  but  me,  do  you?  Oh,  dear 
Daddy,  say  you  don't" 

When  the  letter  was  gone  (she  posted  it  herself), 
she  realized  that  now,  with  Mother  dead,  it  would 
be  harder  than  ever  for  her  if  her  father  were  to 
marry  a  second  time.  She  saw  that  she  must  have 
counsel  from  someone.  And  who  knew  more  about 
the  whole  thing  than  Manila?  She  determined  to 
see  Manila. 

During  those  first  weeks  following  Phoebe's  ar- 
rival from  New  York,  how  anxious  the  family  had 
been  that  she  should  meet  and  talk  to  no  one.  But 
now,  as  during  Phoebe's  attendance  at  Miss  Simp- 
son's, her  uncles  and  her  grandmother  were  more 
than  anxious  that  she  should  have  company — and 
plenty  of  it,  so  that  her  thoughts  would  not  dwell 
too  much  upon  her  loss. 

"Aren't  there  some  little  girls  that  you'd  like  to 
have  come?"  Grandma  often  wanted  to  know. 


Phoebe  155 

This  gave  Phoebe  her  opportunity!  "I'd  like  to 
see  Manila,"  she  announced  one  day. 

And  so  it  came  about  that  Manila  paid  Phcebe 
a  second  visit,  and  the  two  went  out  to  the  summer- 
house,  taking  along  Phoebe's  old  doll,  and  Phoebe 
told  Manila  all  about  Mother,  and  wept,  her  head 
on  Manila's  knee,  and  confessed  her  fears  and  her 
intention  to  thwart. 

Manila  was  practical.  "Well,  if  he  comes  back 
with  a  Peru  wife  you  can't  do  nothin',"  she  argued. 
(  So  monosyllabic  as  a  rule,  Manila,  when  it  came  to 
the  subject  of  step-mothers,  could  be  even  talka- 
tive!) "But  if  he  comes  back  alone,  why " 

"What?"  asked  Phcebe.  "Because  if  he  went  to 
the  movies,  he'd  know  step-mothers  are  bad.  But 
he  doesn't.  And  I  can't  think  how  to  show  him.  I 
just  can't." 

"I  know."    Manila  nodded  solemnly. 

"How?" 

"We'll  show  him  mine." 

"Oh,  Manila!"  Phcebe  was  overjoyed.  "That's  a 
wonderful  plan!  Daddy'll  see  her,  and  he'll  hate 
her.  But  how  can  you  get  him  to  see  her?" 

Manila  laughed.  "Easy!"  she  declared.  "I'll 
fix  it  so's  she'll  foller  me  here." 


156  Phoebe 

Phoebe  looked  at  her  with  awe — and  respect. 
"Suppose  she  was  to  try  to  kill  you !"  she  ventured. 
"Step-mothers  are  awful  bad  in  the  movies." 

"Let  her  kill  me,"  answered  Manila,  philosophi- 
cally. "Then  the  Judge'd  have  her  hung." 

"Say,  what  does  your  step-mother  look  like?" 
Phoebe  wanted  to  know. 

Manila  thought.  "She's  like  a  rat  most,"  she  con- 
cluded finally.  "She's  slim,  and  she  goes  around 
so's  you  don't  hear  her  comin'.  She  has  black  eyes, 
and  slick  hair,  and  a  sniffy  nose." 

"Ugh!"  breathed  Phoebe.  (After  that  the  im- 
aginary step-mother  that  lurked  in  the  big  Blair 
house  whenever  the  light  was  dim,  took  on  a  rat- 
like  personality — slenderness,  stealthiness,  small 
black  eyes  and  sniffy  nose.) 

Phoebe  visualized  the  lady  under  discussion. 
"The  Hanging  of  the  Rat-Woman,"  she  mused. 
"That  would  be  a  wonderful  title." 

Manila  thought  so  too. 

"I  wish  I  was  a  big  cat,"  she  confided,  "I'd  wait 
behind  somethin',  and  when  Mrs.  Botts  come  by, 
I'd  jump  at  her,  and  break  her  back."  Manila's 
face  was  pale  with  the  thrill  of  it,  and  with  hate. 
Phoebe  regarded  her  more  respectfully  than  ever. 


Phoebe  157 

"I  run  away  today,"  went  on  Manila.  "I  don't 
never  ask  Mrs.  Botts  what  I  can  do,  and  Paw  was 
downtown.  Miss  Ruth  telephoned,  and  when  she 
said  you  wanted  to  see  me,  over  I  come." 

"But  when  you  get  home — ?"  It  was  Phoebe's 
time  to  go  white. 

Manila's  eyes  narrowed.  "If  she  licks  me,  I'll  tell 
the  Judge  on  her,"  she  threatened.  "And  he'll  have 
her  in  Court,  and  shame  her  like  he  did  once  before. 
And  a  lickin'  don't  hurt  long." 

Manila  waited  about  that  afternoon  long  past  the 
time  when,  in  the  natural  order  of  events,  Phcebe 
thought  her  visitor  should  have  gone.  For  supper- 
time  approached,  and  yet  Manila  lingered. 

"Are  you  afraid?"  Phcebe  wanted  to  know. 

"Uh-uh,"  denied  Manila.  "I'm  waitin'  till  I'm 
sure  Paw  is  back.  If  Mrs.  Botts  licks  me  I  want 
him  to  see.  Then  I  yell  hard,  and  the  folks  on 
either  side  call  Paw  up  on  the  phone." 

When  Manila  went,  Phcebe  experienced  real  ter- 
ror. At  the  supper-table,  not  being  able  to  eat,  she 
confided  her  fears  to  Grandma  and  her  uncles. 
Whereupon  Uncle  Bob  promptly  called  the  Botts 
home  up  on  the  telephone.  Mrs.  Botts  answered. 
She  seemed  as  quiet  as  possible,  he  said. 


158  Phoebe 

"But  she'll  bide  her  time,  the  vixen!"  he  added. 
"And  Manila  oughtn't  to  leave  home  like  that.  I 
have  my  hands  full  enough  as  it  is." 

Phoebe  said  nothing.  What  if  he  knew  that  she 
and  Manila  had  planned,  when  the  time  should  be 
ripe,  so  to  tantalize  Mrs.  Botts  that  the  latter  would 
invade  the  Blair  house,  there  to  serve  to'  Phoebe's 
father  as  a  horrible  example  of  a  real  step-mother  ? 

"Just  let  the  mean  old  thing  keep  away  from 
here,"  said  Phoebe,  by  way  of  tactfully  turning 
Uncle  Bob  from  even  a  suspicion  of  that  plan. 

"My  dear  niece!"  chided  Uncle  John. 


CHAPTER  XVi 

AT  once  lessons  were  resumed,  filling  the  morn- 
ing hours  of  each  week-day.  And  a  strict  pro- 
gram of  driving  was  followed  out  each  afternoon 
that  the  weather  permitted.  In  consequence  of  which 
Phoebe  had  little  time  to  herself,  and  none  for  Ma- 
nila. 

"They  don't  want  me  to  have  even  one  friend," 
Phoebe  concluded  resentfully.  "And  Uncle  John 
wants  me  to  forget  Mother." 

He  was  leading  Phoebe  from  chapter  to  chapter 
of  "A  Child's  History  of  England,"  each  chapter, 
to  her  mind,  being  dryer  and  more  tiresome  than 
the  last.  She  determined  that  no  one  should  make 
her  forget  her  mother,  and  lengthened  her  prayers, 
therefore,  saying  the  first  one  reverently  to  God, 
but  always,  the  portrait  befoftftier,  making  her  final, 
and  longer  one,  to  her  mother. 

Also  she  spoke  to  Uncle  Bob  about  the  History. 
"It  doesn't  seem  like  anything  for  a  child,"  she  com- 
plained. 

159 


160  Phoebe 

"Pretty  dry — after  the  movies?"  he  suggested. 

Phoebe  assented.  "I'm  used  to  something  excit- 
ing." 

"I  understand,"  he  said  gently.  "But,  little  old 
dumpling,  later  on,  when  you're  older,  you'll  be 
mighty  sorry  if  you  don't  read  all  these  things.  The 
movies  are  all  right — as  entertainment.  They're 
like  the  dessert  at  the  end  of  dinner.  But  don't 
fail  to  know  about  the  substantial  things.  The  day 
is  past  when  girls  need  only  to  be  pretty  and  fluffy. 
We  don't  want  fluffy  women,  either.  Great  things 
have  just  happened  on  this  earth.  You  must  know 
about  them,  and  you  must  know  about  the  things 
that  went  before  them.  Uncle  Bob  wants  you  to 
be  fine,  and  good,  and  wise,  and  womanly,  like — 
like  Miss  Ruth,  for  instance." 

Phcebe  remembered  that  she  wanted  to  ask  Sophie 
about  Miss  Ruth.  Sophie  had  afternoons  off;  not 
Thursday  afternoons,  like  Sally,  but  occasional 
ones,  when,  in  her  very  best  coat-suit,  with  a  hat 
upon  which  were  brick-red  plumes,  she  set  forth 
to  shop,  or  make  calls  or  see  a  matinee. 

Phoebe,  going  promptly  to  find  and  question  her, 
found  her  descending  the  back-stairs,  drawing  on, 
as  she  went,  white  gloves  that  were  half  a  size  too 


Phoebe  161 

small.  Her  face  was  shining  from  a  vigorous  soap- 
ing, as  well  as  with  expectancy.  Phoebe  joined  her, 
and  went  as  far  as  the  gate,  bouncing  the  rubber 
ball  on  the  way. 

"Sophie,  what's  a  probation  officer?"  she  wanted 
to  know. 

"It's  a  party  that  keeps  a'  eye  on  another  party," 
Sophie  declared;  "to  see  if  they're  behavin'.  Miss 
Ruth  Shepard  is  one.  Your  Uncle  Bob  tells  her 
who  to  watch,  and  it's  always  some  kid." 

Phoebe  looked  back  at  the  house,  and  lowered  her 
voice  confidentially.  "Why  did  Uncle  Bob  say  he 
wished  Miss  Ruth  lived  at  our  house?"  she  asked. 
"He  said  he'd  been  saying  she  ought  to  for  years 
and  years  and  years." 

At  first  Sophie  did  not  answer.  But  when  they 
reached  the  gate,  past  which  Phcebe  was  not  to  go, 
Sophie  put  it  between  them,  then  turned  to  lean 
upon  it 

"If  I  tell  you,  you'll  tell,"  she  charged. 

"Cross  my  heart  to  die!"  vowed  Phcebe. 

"Well,  y'  see,  the  fact  is  the  Judge  just  wor- 
ships Miss  Ruth." 

"0-o-oh." 

"Yes,  he's  in  love  with  her. — Now,  don't  you 


1 62  Phoebe 

dare  say  I  told  you,  because  I'd  lose  my  job. — But 
he's  been  in  love  with  her  since  before  you  was 
born." 

"I  don't  blame  him,"  declared  Phcebe.  "She's 
dear,  and  she's  pretty.  And  I  love  her." 

A  strange  look  came  into  Sophie's  eyes — a 
searching  look.  "Say !  You  let  everybody  see  you 
love  her,  will  y'?"  she  asked. 

"Of  course!    Because  I  do." 

"You  show  your  grammaw  how  yj  feel,  and  your 
uncles,  and  also  your  papa." 

"I  will." 

"Because  Miss  Ruth  is  good,"  Sophie  went  on. 
She  was  oddly  grave,  for  some  reason.  "Don't 
forget  that,  Phcebe.  She's  the  nicest  woman  in  this 
town.  But — she's  nevef  been  happy."  Sophie 
sighed.  "Things've  never  gone  right  for  Miss  Ruth, 
some  way." 

"And  she  doesn't  love  Uncle  Bob?"  persisted 
Phcebe. 

Sophie  drew  back.  "You  know  all  you  oughta 
know  about  it,"  she  said,  laughing.  "Now  run 
home,  dearie,  to  Grammaw." 

"Uncle  Bob  isn't  handsome,"  conceded  Phcebe. 


Phoebe  1163 

"He's  too  short,  and  he's  bald,  and  a  little  old, 

"Miss  Ruth  ain't  a  girl  no  more,"  reminded 
Sophie.  "She  looks  awful  young.  But  she  was 
nineteen  the  year  your  daddy  got  married,  and  so 
she  must  be  about  thirty-three  or  so." 

"My!"  marveled  Phoebe.  "I  thought  she  was 
twenty-five,  maybe." 

"Bein'  a  probation  officer  don't  take  it  out-  of 
you  like  housework,"  reminded  Sophie. 

"But  she  doesn't  hate  Uncle  Bob,  does  she?"  went 
on  Phoebe. 

"Naw!  Don't  they  see  each  other  every  day  at 
the  Court  House?" 

"But  she  doesn't  come  here  any  more.    Why?" 

Far  down  the  street  a  man  could  be  seen,  slowly 
approaching.  "Well,  I've  got  to  be  trottin',"  said 
Sophie,  fixing  her  hair  and  giving  a  touch  to  hat 
and  dress. 

"If  Uncle  Bob  likes  her,  and  I  like  her,  and  you 
like  her,"  argued  Phoebe,  "why  doesn't  she  come?" 

"Maybe  she's  tired  at  night.  You  know  she 
works  all  day." 

"She  sat  up  with  me  after — Mother  died.  She 
wasn't  tired  then." 


164  Phoebe 

"Well,  now,  I'll  tell  you  what's  the  matter.  Every- 
body in  town  knows  it,  anyway.  But  you  didn't 
hear  it  from  me,  mind  y',  if  you  happen  to  let  it 
out " 

"I'll  remember." 

"Your  Uncle  Bob  loves  Miss  Ruth,  and  he'd 
marry  her  if  certain  things  wasn't  a  fact." 

"What  things?" 

"Never  mind.  But  this  much  I  can  tell  y* :  Miss 
Ruth  don't  love  your  Uncle  Bob,  and  she'll  never 
marry  him,  for  the  plain  and  simple  reason  that 
she  loves  somebody  else." 

"Oh!— Who,  Sophie?" 

"Somebody  that  went  and  married  somebody 
else,"  Sophie  answered  glumly.  "And  so  Miss 
Ruth  stayed  single.  And  folks  say  her  heart  is 
broke " 

"Just  like  in  the  moving-pictures,  Sophie!" 

"Only  it's  a  lot  harder  when  it's  real,  and  not 
make-believe." 

"Some  day  maybe  that  man'll  get  free  and  come 
back  to  Miss  Ruth,"  suggested  Phoebe.  "And  then 
she'll  marry  him,  and  they'll  be  happy  for  the  rest 
of  their  lives." 

"No."    Sophie  shook  her  head  with  finality.    "It 


Phoebe  165 

won't  end  that  way.  You  see,  the  man  Miss  Ruth 
loves  has  got  a  brother  that  also  happens  to  be  in 
love  with  her." 

"My,  what  a  lot  of  gentlemen  love  Miss  Ruth," 
marveled  Phoebe.  "Doesn't  that  make  three?'* 

"Maybe.  But  the  trouble  is  that  the  one  brother 
just  won't  ever  take  her  from  the  other  brother,  and 
so  neither'll  marry  her.  And  I'm  afraid  the  pic- 
ture's goin'  to  end  sad." 

She  started  away.  And  presently  Phoebe,  watch- 
ing, saw  Sophie  meet  that  man  who  had  been  slowly 
approaching  in  the  distance.  The  man  turned  with 
Sophie,  and  the  two  disappeared  down  the  long, 
tree-shaded  street.  The  man,  then,  was  Sophie's 
beau! 

Phcebe  turned  houseward.  The  world  was  just 
full,  she  reflected,  of  good  moving-pictures  that  no 
one  seemed  to  be  using. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

To  Phoebe,  Uncle  Bob  took  on  a  new  and  in- 
tense interest.  Heretofore,  he  had  been  just  Uncle 
Bob,  stout  and  jolly  and  loving,  with  certain  un- 
known duties  at  the  Court  House,  and  his  various 
homely  pastimes  at  home,  such  as  gardening  and 
puttering  about  the  stable,  and  hunting  worms.  But 
now  all  at  once  he  seemed  different.  And  Phoebe 
forgot  his  stoutness  and  his  baldness  in  remem- 
bering that  he  was  the  adoring,  yet  unhappy,  lover. 
And  just  as  she  had  watched  her  father's  face  for 
signs  of  suffering,  she  now  watched  this  uncle, 
discovering  sadness  in  his  smiling  blue  eyes,  and 
yearning  even  in  his  whistled  tunes  as  he  hammered 
away  at  the  chicken-coop. 

"He  loves  Miss  Ruth,"  she  pondered.  She  was 
doubly  tender  to  him,  knowing  his  secret.  And 
just  as  she  had  vowed  to  thwart  any  plan  of  her 
father's  to  marry  a  second  wife,  she  now  gave  time 
to  a  plot  that  would  bring  Miss  Ruth  to  Grandma's. 

Sophie  discouraged  the  idea.     "You  can't  make 

166 


Phoebe  167 

Miss  Ruth  love  your  Uncle  if  she  don't,"  she  as- 
serted. "And — she  don't." 

"I'm  going  to  pray  about  it,'*  resolved  Phoebe, 
stoutly. 

It  meant  a  new  ending  to  her  bedside  devotions. 
First  there  was  that  general  plea  to  her  Maker, 
which,  she  felt,  kept  her  right  in  her  own  conscience 
and  in  the  sight  of  her  fellow-beings.  Next  came 
her  whispered  appeal  to  her  mother,  bringing  that 
dear  presence  poignantly  near.  The  final  prayer 
was  as  simple  as  it  was  heartfelt :  "Oh,  God,  please 
help  Miss  Ruth  to  love  my  Uncle  Bob!" 

Yet  she  never  dared  broach  the  matter  to  her 
uncle.  Other  things  they  discussed  most  confiden- 
tially; for  instance,  Uncle  John. 

"When  I  get  educated,"  Phcebe  wanted  to  know, 
"like  Uncle  John  is,  will  I  talk  to  people  like  he 
does,  and  make  them  sleepy?" 

Uncle  Bob  roared  with  laughter,  and  slapped  his 
knee.  "That's  a  good  one !"  he  cried.  "And  down 
at  the  Court  House,  sometimes  when  I  talk  a  good 
deal  /  can  put  a  lawyer  to  sleep." 

"Lawyers  are  not  nice  people,"  Phoebe  declared. 
"At  least  they're  never  very  nice  on  the  screen." 

She  asked  him  quite  frankly  about  her  program 


1 68  Phoebe 

of  work  "Public  school  is  out,  and  so  is  Miss 
Simpson's,"  she  reminded  him;  "and  here  I  am  at 
lessons  every  morning." 

"You'll  be  just  so  much  ahead  of  everybody  else," 
returned  Uncle  Bob.  "And  why  waste  the  time? 
Pile  up  the  good  work  while  Daddy's  gone.  Now ! 
now!  What's  that?  A  little  tear?" 

Phoebe  nodded.  "Lately,  when  I  shut  my  eyes, 
I  can't  see  Daddy's  face  any  more.  He  seems  such 
a  long  way  off.  Just  see  where  Peru  is  on  the 
map!" 

"I  know,  darling.     It's  hard." 

She  looked  around — to  make  sure  they  were 
alone.  "If — if  I  only  had  my  mother,"  she  whis- 
pered. "Uncle  Bob,  are  there  a  lot  of  girls  in  the 
world  without  mothers?" 

He  nodded.     "Too  many." 

"Sometimes  it  seems  as  if  I  can't  stand  it,"  she 
confessed.  "My  throat  twists  up, — right  here — and 
it  aches.  I  wake  in  the  night,  and  I  pretend  that 
she's  close  to  me " 

"Maybe  she  is." 

"No;  because  I  hold  out  my  arms." 

Uncle  Bob  drew  her  close.    "Ah,  you're  lonely !" 


Phoebe  169 

"I  want  my  mother,"  whispered  Phoebe.  "Oh, 
Uncle  Bob,  I  want  my  mother !" 

"There!    There!"  he  comforted. 

"She  died  out  there  alone !    Did  you  all  hate  her  ? ' 

"No!    No!" 

"What  did  my  mother  do  that  was  so  bad?" 

He  made  her  stand  in  front  of  him.  "Phoebe," 
he  began  solemnly,  "shall  I  tell  you  the  truth  ?" 

"I  want  to  know." 

"And  if  I  tell  you  the  truth,  you'll  never  worry 
about  it  again?" 

"No,  I  won't,  Uncle  Bob." 

"The  truth  is  this:" — looking  at  her  squarely — 
"your  mother  just  couldn't  do  wrong." 

"I  love  you,"  faltered  Phoebe,  glad  and  grateful 
and  on  the  verge  of  tears — all  at  the  same  time. 

"If  I  could  only  give  you  back  your  mother!" 
went  on  Uncle  Bob,  huskily.  "To  make  you  happy, 
there  isn't  anything  I  wouldn't  do — not  anything." 

His  big  chin  rested  upon  his  tie.  He  lost  him- 
self in  thought,  his  eyes  on  the  carpet, — they  were 
in  the  library — his  arm  about  Phoebe. 

And  then  she  was  reminded  all  at  once  of  that 
which  could  make  him  happy.  For  Sophie  burst 
in.  her  over-curled  hair  lifting  with  the  speed  of 


170  Phoebe 

her  coming,  and  her  eyes  dancing  with  something 
like  mischief. 

"Miss  Shepard's  callin',  Judge,"  she  announced. 

"Ah!"  Uncle  Bob  sprang  up. 

"Miss  Ruth!"  cried  Phoebe,  joyously. 

"Ask  Miss  Shepard  in  here,  Sophie,"  bade  Uncle 
Bob.  Then,  as  Sophie  swung  herself  out,  "You 
love  Miss  Ruth  very  much,  don't  you,  Phoebe?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Phoebe.  And  then,  before  she 
could  stop  the  words,  for  she  was  thinking  aloud, 
"So  do  you." 

"Wha-a-at?"  exclaimed  Uncle  Bob. 

"People  say  so,"  defended  Phoebe,  a  little  fright- 
ened at  her  own  temerity. 

Uncle  Bob's  face  grew  suddenly  stern.  "That's 
gossip,"  he  said  shortly. 

"I'm  sorry." 

He  strode  to  Uncle  John's  table  and  back;  then, 
"That's  all  right,  old  dumpling.  Now  you  go  in 
to  Grandma.  And  remember  that  Uncle  Bob's 
going  to  try  to  do  something  that'll  make  his  dear 
Phoebe  happy.  He's  going  to  try  right  away — soon 
— today.  For  he's  got  a  plan — a  wonderful 
plan » 

It  was  Miss  Ruth  who  cut  him  short.     She  en- 


Phoebe  171 

tered  quickly,  a  little  out  of  breath.  And  she  was 
pale.  "Judge,  I'm  sorry  to  trouble  you " 

"You  never  trouble  me."  How  deep  Uncle  Bob's 
voice  could  be!  Phcebe  was  standing  beside  Miss 
Ruth,  her  hand  in  a  firm,  cool,  loving  clasp.  She 
watched  her  uncle  narrowly,  seeing  that  what 
Sophie  had  told  her  was  true. 

"Judge,  it's  Manila,"  announced  Miss  Ruth. 

"What's  wrong?"  asked  Uncle  Bob. 

"Mr.  Botts  is  drinking  again.  And  so — well, 
you  know  my  neighbor  on  the  other  side?  She's 
very  close  to  the  Botts's.  And  they've  got  that 
child  locked  up,  in  a  room  on  this  side " 

Phcebe  drew  away  from  Miss  Ruth,  and  stared 
up  at  her.  "In  prison!"  she  murmured.  Here 
was  another  drama,  more  startling  even  than  this 
one  which  concerned  Miss  Ruth  and  Uncle  Bob's 
unrequited  love. 

Miss  Ruth  was  appealing  to  Uncle  Bob.  "My 
neighbors  can  hear  Manila  crying — they  heard  her 
in  the  night,  and  this  morning,  too,  while  it  was 
still  dark.  Oh,  Judge,  they  say  there's  no  bed  in 
that  room " 

Uncle  Bob  straightened  determinedly.  "We've 
got  to  take  that  child,"  he  declared. 


172  Phoebe 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  to  hear  you  say  that!"  cried 
Miss  Ruth.  "Poor,  unhappy " 

But  Phoebe  heard  no  more.  For  an  idea  had 
come  to  her,  and  she  had  decided  to  act  upon  it. 
Manila  was  locked  up  by  her  cruel  step-mother — 
exactly  like  some  unfortunate  waif  in  a  moving-pic- 
ture story!  Uncle  Bob  meant  that  Manila  should 
be  set  free. 

"And  I'm  going  to  do  it,"  vowed  Phcebe. 

She  made  for  the  hall  door. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

ALL  the  moving-picture  heroines  that  Phoebe 
loved  were  responsible  for  her  resolve  to  rescue 
Manila.  The  plan  seemed  an  inspiration;  and  not 
in  the  least  degree  blameworthy — on  the  contrary. 
When  had  she  seen  one  of  her  screen  favorites  do 
anything,  however  startling,  that  had  brought  dis- 
aster, or  punishment — even  displeasure?  Quite 
naturally,  therefore,  Phcebe  apprehended  only  suc- 
cess in  her  venture,  happiness  for  Manila,  and  praise 
for  herself. 

She  thrilled  with  the  excitement  of  the  venture 
as  she  set  off  from  the  Blair  side-porch.  Here  was 
a  real  heart  drama! 

As  she  trotted  across  the  lawn  and  through  the 
garden,  Phcebe  made  up  her  mind  as  to  how  she 
would  carry  out  her  design.  Once,  in  a  book  she 
had  read,  a  boy  had  stealthily  attracted  the  atten- 
tion of  another  boy  by  throwing  pebbles  against  a 
window.  She  determined  to  throw  pebbles  against 
Manila's  window. 


174  Phoebe 

She  knew  which  was  the  Botts  house  by  begin- 
ning at  the  Shepard  residence  and  counting  three. 
Manila's  home  was  of  brick,  with  white  trimmings 
and  green  blinds.  The  window  toward  Miss  Ruth's 
was  not  high  from  the  ground,  and  it  was  just 
above  a  recently  spaded  flower-bed.  When  Phoebe 
reached  the  fence  that  skirted  the  flower-bed,  she 
gathered  a  handful  of  small  gravel,  tossed  it  against 
the  window-panes,  and  then  crouched  in  the  lee  of 
the  fence.  Her  heart  was  pounding  against  her 
middy  blouse — pounding  wildly.  She  was  glad  of 
it.  In  a  matter  of  this  kind  that  was  precisely  what 
a  moving  picture  heroine's  heart  should  do ! 

More  small  gravel.  Then  a  face  appeared  at 
the  window — Manila's  face.  And  Manila's  pale 
eyes  looked  out,  and  roved  inquiringly.  But  only 
for  a  moment.  She  had  something  in  her  hands — 
a  pair  of  scissors;  also  some  paper.  She  was  busy 
with  these. 

Phoebe  felt  disappointment.  Manila  was  not  liv- 
ing up  to  expectations,  to  the  possibilities  of  the 
drama.  She  should  have  come  flinging  against  the 
glass,  glad  and  thankful  of  a  rescuer.  Her  face 
should  have  been  very  wan,  and  tear-stained.  Her 
hair  should  have  been  free  about  her  shoulders. 


Phoebe  175 

There  should  have  been  a  long  purple  welt  across 
one  poor,  pitiful  cheek. 

Instead,  Manila's  hair  was  braided,  but  very 
mussy.  It  stood  up  around  her  forehead  like  a 
fiery  fringe.  Phoebe  was  reminded  of  savage  girls 
that  she  had. seen  at  the  showing  of  the  Roosevelt 
South  American  pictures. 

"St !  St !"  she  hissed.  She  stood  up,  but  stooped. 
She  was  determined  that  she,  at  least,  would  do  her 
share  toward  carrying  out  the  whole  thing  prop- 
erly, to  make  it  like  a  real  picture. 

Manila  saw  her,  and  hoisted  the  window. 
"Hullo,"  she  greeted,  with  one  eye  on  the  work  in 
her  hands.  "What're  you  doin'  out  there?" 

"Manila  Botts,"  cried  Phoebe,  crossly,  "I  have 
come  to  save  you!" 

Manila,  hanging  upon  the  window-sill,  thrust  out 
her  under  lip  rebelliously.  "But  I'm  cutting  paper 
dolls,"  she  protested. 

"Manila  Botts!"  scolded  Phoebe,  with  a  stamp 
of  her  foot.  "Uncle  Bob  means  to  take  you  away 
from  your  step-mother,  and  I've  come  to  get  you. 
Now,  are  you  going  to  act  like  this?" 

Patiently  Manila  dropped  scissors  and  paper. 
Then  she  disposed  herself  sidewise,  face  down,  upon 


176  Phoebe 

the  sill,  let  one  leg  drop  over  it  leisurely,  next,  an- 
other, and  slipped  quietly  to  the  ground.  A  mo- 
ment later  Phoebe  drew  her  through  a  gap  in  the 
fence. 

Manila  seemed  not  only  indifferent,  but  even  re- 
luctant, about  being  rescued.  As  for  gratitude, 
there  was  not  a  trace  of  it.  As  the  two  made  off 
together  along  the  tradesmen's  dirt  road  that  ran 
behind  the  row  of  houses,  she  pointed  out  now  one 
thing,  and  now  another,  in  a  way  that  made  Phoebe 
more  irritated  than  ever. 

"But  haven't  you  been  locked  up?"  Phoebe 
wanted  to  know;  "and  in  a  room  without  a  bed?" 

"Aw,  well,"  returned  Manila,  philosophically, 
"you  betcha  I  wouldn't  let  Mrs.  Botts  know  I 
cared." 

When  the  rear  gate  leading  to  the  Blair  house 
was  reached,  Manila  began  to  hang  back.  "Wisht 
I  didn't  come,"  she  declared. 

"Wha-a-at?"  Phoebe  stopped  short. 

"I'm  scairt,"  confided  Manila. 

"Scared  nothing!"  Phcebe  said  stoutly,  slamming 
the  gate  behind  them.  "You're  with  us  now." 

"Mrs.  Botts  told  me,  'Don't  you  budge'." 


Phoebe  177 

"You  don't  have  to  mind  her  any  more.  After 
this  you  mind  just  me." 

"She  won't  let  me." 

"She  can't  help  herself.  Because  I'm  going  to 
adopt  you.  You're  going  to  be — let  me  see!  I 
don't  know  which,  my  sister  or  my  daughter." 

Manila  halted  and  pulled  back.  "Phoebe,  she'll 
come  after  me." 

"Don't  you  worry.  I've  seen  lots  worse  than 
her." 

"Worsen  her?"  repeated  Manila,  incredulous. 

"In  the  pictures.  And  I've  noticed  that  the  hero 
or  the  heroine  always  conies  out  ahead." 

Manila  allowed  herself  to  be  led  across  the  rear 
lawn  toward  the  Blair  house,  but  she  was  not  con- 
vinced. "This  ain't  no  movie,"  she  reminded. 

"It's  better  than  a  movie,"  asserted  Phoebe,  "be- 
cause it's  honest-to-goodness  true!" 

Manila  looked  back  over  a  shoulder.  Her  con- 
cern was  growing  fast.  "But  what  if  she  seen  us 
run  away?" 

Phoebe  was  turning  a  corner  on  her  way  to  the 
library  windows.  The  library  windows  were  low 
of  sill.  At  this  season  of  the  year  they  were  wide 
open.  Of  course  all  the  outer  doors  of  the  house 


178  Phoebe 

were  open,  too, — at  least  they  were  not  locked. 
But  Phoebe  had  no  intention  of  entering  her  home 
in  any  prosaic  fashion.  No,  indeed.  Heroines  of 
the  screen  always  made  their  exits  and  entrances 
romantically.  She  meant  to  carry  out  this  drama 
in  true  moving-picture  fashion. 

She  lowered  her  voice.  "Who  cares?"  she  de- 
manded scornfully.  "It  was  all  just  perfect.  There 
was  the  window,  and  the  ladder " 

"Ladder?"  challenged  Manila. 

"Well,  what  was  better,  you  threw  yourself  out. 
You  are  the  prisoner,  Manila,  and  I'm  the  heroine. 
— My,  if  only  somebody  could' ve  come  by  with  a 
kodak!" 

They  crept  along  by  the  wall.  Manila  was 
sniffing.  Phcebe  eyed  her  approvingly.  This  was 
better — the  proper  spirit. 

"Sh!  Sh!"  cautioned  Phcebe. 

They  arrived,  bent  over,  under  a  window. 
Phcebe  slowly  straightened  and  spied  out  the 
ground.  The  library  was  empty.  Good !  She  gave 
a  hop,  landed  on  mid-torso  across  the  sill,  gave  a 
wriggle,  and  stood  safely  within.  "Now!"  she 
whispered  cautiously,  putting  forth  a  hand. 

Manila  was  weeping  in  good  earnest.    "She  told 


Phoebe  179 

me,  'Don't  you  budge'."  But  she  took  Phoebe's 
hand. 

When  the  two  were  side  by  side  once  more, 
Phoebe  was  all  tender  sympathy.  She  felt  that 
Manila  was  really  acting  very  well.  At  first  the 
latter  had  given  the  impression  that,  after  all,  Mrs. 
Botts  was  not  so  bad  as  she  had  been  painted.  But 
of  course  she  was!  And  this  drama  was  prom- 
ising excitement. 

Manila  sought  the  nearest  chair.  "Wa-a-ah," 
she  wept. 

"Poor  little  girl!"  said  Phoebe,  stroking  the  red 
hair.  "If  only  we  had  our  mothers — both  of  us. 
Manila,  do  you  suppose  our  mothers  are  together 
in  Heaven?"  Then  with  a  glance  at  the  woe- 
begone figure,  "Well,  perhaps  not  exactly  together, 
but  close  by.  Perhaps  my  mother  is  in  a  mansion 
all  of  precious  stones,  and  your  mother — your 
mother  is  walking  along  the  streets  of  gold." 

Manila  cast  up  one  eye,  the  other  being  hidden 
under  a  damp  fist.  "How  do  y'  know?"  she  asked. 

"Uncle  John  tells  me,"  condescended  Phcebe. 
"Uncle  John's  a  clergyman,  and  he  knows  all  about 
Heaven.  The  twelve  gates  of  the  City  are  twelve 


180  Phoebe 

pearls/  he  says.  Oh,  Manila,  if  you  and  I  could 
only  go  to  Heaven  to  our  mothers!" 

Manila  stood  up.  "Where  is  Heaven?"  she 
asked  hopefully,  as  one  who  is  of  a  mind  to  set  off 
forthwith. 

"Where?  Well,  I  don't  know  exactly.  That's 
one  thing  I  forgot  to  ask  Uncle  John." 

Manila's  face  fell.  And  her  eyes,  roving,  lit 
upon  the  nearby  globe.  She  pointed.  "Can't  y' 
find  it  on  the  world?"  she  suggested. 

"On  that?"  cried  Phoebe. 

"Look  for  it!" 

Phoebe  gave  Manila's  arm  a  soothing  pat.  Then 
with  a  shake  of  the  head,  "Poor  little  girl,  don't 
you  know  that  Heaven  isn't  on  the  globe?  And 
I've  never  even  seen  it  in  the  movies." 

Manila  sat  down. 

"I  know  what's  inside,"  confided  Phoebe.  "That's 
the  bad  place,  where  we  go  if  we  kill  anybody, 
and  if  we  tell  lies.  It's  awful  hot  there,  Uncle 
John  says,  and  we  burn  and  burn.  Oh,  Uncle  John 
knows  everything  religious." 

There  was  something  about  all  this  that  made 
Manila's  courage  sink,  for  once  more  she  fell  to 
weeping. 


Phoebe  181 

"Manila!"  pleaded  Phoebe.  "Everybody  says 
that  Heaven  is — look!"  She  pointed  ceilingward. 

"Up  in  your  house?"  faltered  Manila. 

"No !    Somewhere  in  the  sky." 

"How  do  we  get  there  ?    Airplanes  ?" 

"The  minute  you  die,  Manila,  you're  an  angel, 
and  you  grow  wings." 

"I  don't  wanta  die !" 

Phoebe  put  her  arms  about  the  shaking  figure. 
"There!  There!"  she  comforted.  "What  you 
need  is  mothering.  I  know.  It's  what  I  want  when 
I  feel  blue.  Manila,  I'm  going  to  mother  you." 

And  then — !  Up  to  now  Phoebe  had  felt  that 
from  the  standpoint  of  drama  there  had  been  not 
a  little  lacking  in  this  rescue  of  an  imprisoned  step- 
daughter. She  was  to  feel  this  no  longer.  For  the 
exciting  now  took  place. 

Phoebe  never  did  quite  figure  out  how  it  hap- 
pened. But  first  there  was  a  quick  slamming  of 
floors,  and  a  shrilling  of  voices — Sophie's,  Grand- 
ma's, and  another,  a  strange  woman's.  Then  as 
Manila  leaped  from  Phoebe's  hold,  the  door  opened 
with  a  fling,  so  that  the  window-curtains  billowed 
and  swung,  and  into  the  room,  stamping  and  pant- 
ing, with  eyes  bulging  and  lips  puffed  out,  and  a 


1 82  Phcebe 

very  torrent  of  threatening  cries,  came  the  Rat- 
Woman  ! 

Phoebe  knew  her  instantly,  even  before  Manila 
cried  "Mrs.  Botts !"  And  Phoebe  faced  her,  brave- 
ly, with  dislike  and  reproof  in  her  look.  Crouched 
behind  her  was  Manila,  sobbing  wildly. 

"So-o-o !"  cried  the  Rat-Woman,  advancing  upon 
Phoebe.  "I  find  out  if  someone  can  come  into  my 
house  to  steal !" 

Uncle  Bob  had  entered  behind  her.  He  was 
smiling,  hands  in  pockets.  "Nonsense!"  he  retort- 
ed. "Who  would  steal  Manila.  You've  been  hard 
on  this  poor  child  again,  and  she  simply  took  to 
her  heels." 

"I  tell  her,  'Don't  you  budge',"  cried  Mrs.  Botts. 
(Phoebe  noted  that  there  was  an  accent,  slight, 
but  enough  to  give  what  Phoebe  thought  was  the 
perfect  touch.  This  was  no  ordinary  villain!) 

"Phoebe,"  said  Uncle  Bob,  mildly,  "how  does 
Manila  happen  to  be  here?" 

"Tell!  Yes!"  added  Mrs.  Botts,  wrathfully.  "I 
hear  about  this  Phoebe.  She  is  smart.  She  knows 
everything." 

Phoebe  drew  herself  up.  "Well,  I  know  one 
thing,"  she  returned  coolly. 


Phoebe  183 

"Ye-e-es!  And  what?"  Mrs.  Botts  folded  her 
arms  and  hung  her  weight  on  one  foot. 

"I  know  that  all  step-mothers  are  cruel." 

Out  leaped  Mrs.  Botts' s  arms.  She  swept  around 
upon  the  Judge.  "You  hear  it?"  she  demanded. 
"You  hear  it?  She  is  permitted  to  insult  me!" 

It  was  not  to  be  denied  that  Mrs.  Botts  was 
doing  her  part  to  make  the  whole  thing  really  dra- 
matic. Phoebe  had  to  give  her  credit  for  that. 

"Phoebe?" — Uncle  Bob  was  as  mild  as  ever. 

Phoebe  wished  that  she  might  have  had  a  dif- 
ferent tale  to  tell.  If  only  she  had  thought  to  gag 
Manila,  and  tie  her  hands!  If  only  she  could  tell 
of,  say,  a  kidnapping  plot,  of  a  great,  black  limou- 
sine, and  Mexicans  with  knives!  But 

"Well,  Uncle  Bob,"  she  began  calmly,  "I  did 
go  over  and  get  her.  Miss  Ruth  told  us  she  was 
crying.  Well,  she  wasn't.  She  was  cutting  paper 
dolls.  Anyhow,  I  stole  her,  and  she's  cried  a  lot 
since.  Uncle  John  says  I'm  too  big  for  dolls,  so 
I  intend  to  adopt  her." 

"Adopt  her !"  exploded  Uncle  Bob. 

"Oh,  just  look  at  her  \'f  implored  Phcebe.  "She's 
had  such  bad  luck! — a  step-mother,  and  the  awful 


184  Phoebe 

name  of  Botts,  and  she's  red-haired,  and  freckled, 
and  she's  got  adenoids!" 

Mrs.  Botts  sprang  forward.  "So-o-o!"  she  an- 
swered. "She  is  like  that.  But  she  can  mind  her 
own  business.  And  she  does  not  talk  too  much. 
She  might  be  worse — as  bad  as  you!" 

"Phcebe,"  said  Uncle  Bob.  He  crossed  to  her, 
anxiously  Phcebe  thought. 

"You  are  a  little  thief!"  Mrs.  Botts  stuck  a 
fist  close  to  Phoebe's  nose.  "And  I  will  have  you 
arrested !  The  whole  town  knows  about  you.  Miss 
Simpson,  she " 

Uncle  Bob  put  a  hand  over  each  of  Phcebe' s  ears 
then,  shutting  out  that  shrill  voice.  Once  Phcebe 
heard  "school,"  and  twice  she  heard  "your 
mother."  Then  Mrs.  Botts  flung  herself  away  and 
out. 

"What  did  she  say,  Uncle  Bob?"  asked  Phoebe. 
"What  did  you  cover  my  ears  for?  What  did  she 
say?" 

Uncle  Bob  did  not  reply.  He  was  white  with 
rage.  He  went  to  the  door  and  looked  through. 
"Sophie,  put  that  vixen  out!"  he  ordered. 

Now  that  Mrs.   Botts  was  gone,   Manila  was 


Phoebe  185 

tearless  once  more.  "My  goodness !"  she  mourned, 
"now  we've  done  it!" 

"What?"  asked  Phoebe. 

"Why,  don't  y'  see?  The  Rat-Woman  come  too 
soon." 

"Sure  enough!"  Phoebe  agreed.  "Oh,  thafs  too 
bad!" 

"And  your  paw  don't  git  to  see  her/'  Manila 
added. 

"Phoebe,  why  did  you  want  your  daddy  to  see 
her?"  asked  Uncle  Bob. 

"Oh,  just  be-because,"  Phoebe  frowned  at  Ma- 
nila, warning  her  to  silence. 

Uncle  Bob  sat  down  upon  the  couch.  "Come 
here,  old  dumpling,"  he  bade.  And  when  Phoebe 
had  gone  to  him,  "Now,  because  why?" 

"I  don't  want  to  tell  you,"  she  confessed  frankly. 

"But  I'd  really  like  to  know." 

She  hesitated.  "If  I  tell  you,  you  won't  laugh?" 
she  asked. 

"I  won't  laugh,"  promised  Uncle  Bob,  gravely. 

"Because  I  want  Daddy  to  see  how  mean  and 
terrible  step-mothers  are,"  explained  Phoebe.  "We 
were  going  to  show  him  Mrs.  Botts.  And  now 
the  whole  plot  is  spoiled." 


i86  Phoebe 

"So  you  think  step-mothers  are  mean  and  ter- 
rible," said  Uncle  Bob.  And  there  was  not  even 
a  glimmer  of  a  smile  in  his  eyes.  On  the  contrary 
— he  looked  actually  troubled! 

All  that  she  had  longed  to  say  to  her  father  now 
surged  to  Phoebe's  lips.  She  dropped  beside  her 
uncle,  and  clung  to  him.  "Oh,  I  don't  want  a  step- 
mother!" she  cried.  "Oh,  Uncle  Bob,  help  me! 
Keep  Daddy  from  getting  married  again!  You 
will,  won't  you?  A  step-mother  would  whip  me, 
and  wear  Mother's  clothes,  and  make  Daddy  hate 
me!  Oh,  Uncle  Bob,  you  don't  think  Daddy  will 
bring  one  home?" 

"Darling  baby,"  he  said  tenderly,  "I  know  your 
Daddy  won't  bring  one  home." 

"Oh,  not  a  Peru  woman!"  pleaded  Phoebe.  "I 
don't  want  one!" 

"Don't  you  worry.  No  Peru  woman  is  going  to 
get  him." 

"But  I  don't  want  anybody,"  she  persisted.  "Oh, 
Uncle  Bob!" 

That  was  all.  Except  that  when  Phoebe  had 
gone  to  Miss  Ruth's  with  Manila,  and  was  near- 
ing  home  again,  Grandma  came  out  to  meet  her. 


Phoebe  187 

And  Grandma  was  particularly  tender  to  her,  for 
some  reason,  and  that  very  evening  sat  beside 
Phoebe's  bed  for  a  little  while,  and  chatted. 

And  from  then  on — Phoebe  could  not  help  but 
notice  it — Grandma  seemed  to  take  great  interest 
in  Phoebe,  to  be  with  her  often,  to  make  her  little 
presents,  and  buy  her  little  things,  and  say  so 
much  to  her  that  was  sweet.  For  which  reason 
Phoebe  came  to  understand  Grandma  better,  and 
daily  their  love  for  each  other  grew. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

"You  can't  tell  anything  by  the  way  a  day 
starts,"  philosophized  Phoebe,  as  she  unlaced  her 
shoes  preparatory  to  going  to  bed ;  "because  a  won- 
derful day  starts  exactly  like  an  ordinary  one." 

The  day  had  indeed  started  ordinarily  enough — 
with  the  usual  routine:  breakfast,  twenty  minutes 
in  the  open  air,  then  an  hour  equally  divided  be- 
tween spelling  and  sums.  Next  Uncle  John 
"heard"  the  spelling,  and  looked  over  the  sums; 
after  which,  settling  himself  in  a  big,  comfortable 
chair  by  a  window, — his  back  to  Phcebe — he  lis- 
tened while  she  read  aloud  from  Dickens's 
"Child's  History  of  England." 

Phcebe  liked  the  reading  aloud  best.  Because 
she  had  discovered  that  if  she  would  read  quietly, 
and  in  one  tone,  Uncle  John  could  be  counted  upon 
to  fall  asleep  during  the  first  ten  minutes.  Where- 
upon Phcebe,  with  "Little  Women"  handy,  or  "Sara 

Crewe,"  or,  better  still,  something  by  "The  Duch- 

188 


Phcebe  189 

ess",  was  able  to  change  from  the  History  to  a  story 
without  in  any  way  disturbing  Uncle  John. 

When  Uncle  John  was  finished  with  his  after- 
breakfast  sleep  (Sophie  confided  to  Phoebe  that  it 
was  his  liver),  he  invariably  wakened  with  a  start, 
pretending  that  he  had  not  been  dozing  at  all,  said 
"Yes,  yes,  yes,"  as  he  got  up,  and  "Very  well,  dear 
child,"  as  he  crossed  to  the  table  and  his  work,  and 
Phoebe  was  then  at  liberty  either  to  go  on  reading 
from  the  book  of  her  choice  or  betake  herself  else- 
where. 

But  this  was  to  be  a  wonderful  day.  For  no 
sooner  was  Phcebe  engrossed  in  her  book,  as  her 
clergyman  uncle  was  in  his  sermon,  than  Sophie  ap- 
peared, looking  flushed  and  important.  She  made 
toward  the  big  table  with  a  swish  of  her  starched 
skirts.  She  bent  to  whisper  something.  Whereat 
Dr.  Blair  sprang  up  with  a  joyful  exclamation  and 
strode  out. 

It  so  happened  that  Phcebe  was  reading  "Airy, 
Fairy  Lillian".  On  Sophie's  entrance  she  had 
quickly  closed  that  fascinating  volume  and  slipped 
it  between  her  back  and  the  chair,  then  folded  her 
hands  thoughtfully  in  her  lap;  not  that  she  feared 
to  let  Sophie  know  what  she  was  reading — as  a 


190  Phoebe 

matter  of  fact  it  was  Sophie  who  had  recom- 
mended "The  Duchess"  books,  and  pointed  out  the 
place  of  their  hiding.  But  Phoebe  knew  that  when- 
ever Uncle  John  was  roused  out  of  the  strange, 
dazed — almost  cataleptic! — condition  into  which  he 
fell  when  he  worked,  he  was  more  likely  than  not 
to  take  stock  of  everything  about  him.  And 
Phoebe  did  not  care  to  have  him  see  "Airy,  Fairy 
Lillian". 

Uncle  John  gone,  Sophie  did  a  hop-skip  to 
Phoebe's  chair.  "What  d'  y'  think !"  she  exclaimed 
excitedly. 

Phoebe  looked  up  languidly.  Secretly  she  was 
annoyed  at  Sophie's  interruption,  for  the  exquisite 
Lillian  (a  sort  of  novelized  Marguerite  Clark)  had 
just  sprained  her  slender,  silken-covered  ankle,  and 
a  lover  fully  as  handsome  as  Dustin  Farnum  was 
about  to  take  Lillian  up  in  his  strong  young  arms. 

"What?"  she  inquired  politely. 

Sophie  bent,  put  a  hand  on  each  knee,  and  beamed 
into  Phoebe's  eyes.  "Comp'ny,"  she  announced. 

"Company?  Who?"  Phoebe  was  more  than  in- 
terested. 

"Genevieve  Finnegan." 


Phoebe  1911 

Phoebe  made  a  wry  face.  "Her!"  she  said,  and 
flushed. 

"I  pretended  I  didn't  know  her,"  chuckled 
Sophie. 

Phoebe  was  suspicious.  "What  do  you  think 
she's  come  for?"  she  asked. 

"Can't  say."    Sophie  straightened  and  shrugged. 

"Maybe  she's  going  to  tell  me  they're  all  sorry 
for  putting  me  out  of  school,"  suggested  Phoebe. 

"You're  right!  Because  Miss  Simpson  come 
with  her." 

"Miss — Simpson!"  gasped  Phoebe,  staring. 

"In  the  sittin'-room  with  Grammaw  and  Dr. 
Blair." 

Phoebe  stood  up.  The  bow  on  the  front  of  her 
middy-blouse  rose  and  fell.  Her  eyes  swam.  It 
was  all  very  well  to  be  independent,  to  say  she  did 
not  want  friends  or  acquaintances.  But  she  had 
lived  through  scores  of  dull  days — days  that  were 
all  the  harder  to  endure  because  she  was  a  prod- 
uct of  a  metropolis.  She  had  not  even  seen  as 
much  of  Manila  as  she  would  have  liked.  Miss 
Ruth,  too,  came  only  when  she  had  to.  And  when 
Uncle  Bob  had  suggested  asking  little  girls  in, 


192  Phoebe 

Phoebe  had  proudly  said  no — but  said  it  with  a 
bursting  heart 

But  now  the  time  was  come  when  she  could 
stand  out  against  her  loneliness  no  longer.  "Oh, 
Sophie!  Sophie!"  she  cried,  clasping  her  hands. 
"It's  just  splendid !  No  more  tutoring  with  Uncle 
John!  Oh,  how  I  hate  it!  No  more  Dickens's 
'Child's  History  of  England/  or  these  awful  clas- 
sics! Miss  Simpson's  come  to  ask  me " 

She  paused.  It  was  the  look  on  Sophie's  face 
that  made  her  pause.  Resentment  was  written 
large  on  that  countenance  framed  by  the  tousled 
hair.  Phoebe  understood  the  resentment.  She 
shared  it.  "But  she  didn't  want  me  when  my 
mother  was — West,"  she  said. 

Sophie's  arms  were  folded.  "Now,  you're  talk- 
in'  !"  she  replied  admiringly.  "When  you  needed 
these  fine  ladies,  they  didn't  stand  by  y'." 

Phoebe  nodded.  "I  know.  I've  thought  about  it 
lots  since  my  mother  died.  And  I  know  there  was 
something  the  matter.  She  looked  down  at  the 
carpet,  restraining  herself  from  questioning  Sophie. 
What  was  it  that  Mrs.  Botts  had  said — while  Uncle 
Bob  covered  Phoebe's  ears?  Something  very  ugly, 
Phoebe  was  sure.  And  Phoebe  would  have  liked  to 


Phoebe  193 

ask  now,  yet  shrank  as  ever  from  discussing  her 
mother  with  a  servant.  But  Uncle  Bob  had  said 
that  Mother  could  not  do  wrong 

"Sophie!"  she  whispered.  "I  hadn't  done  any- 
thing, had  I?  And  Miss  Simpson  sent  home  my 
books!"  Her  voice  broke.  She  sank  to  the  chair. 

"Phoebe,"  said  Sophie,  gently.  Then  to  rouse 
her,  "Keep  your  chin  up,  Kiddie!  Don't  you  let 
that  Finnegan  girl  see  that  you  care!" 

"I  don't  care,"  protested  Phoebe,  with  spirit. 
"You  just  watch  me!  Go  on — bring  her  in.  I'm 
ready!"  She  caught  up  a  volume  of  Scott  from 
where  she  had  deposited  it  when  Lillian  had  proved 
the  more  enthralling. 

"Ha-ha-a-a-a !"  chortled  Sophie,  proudly.  With 
a  toss  of  her  head,  she  went  out. 

Phcebe  opened  her  book  at  random.  Perhaps  it 
was  even  upside  down — she  scarcely  knew.  How- 
ever it  was,  she  became  intensely  engrossed  in  it,  so 
that  she  did  not  even  glance  up  when  the  door  to  the 
hall  opened  and  Sophie  returned. 

"I  found  her,  Miss  Finnegan,"  announced 
Sophie,  in  her  best  receiving  manner. 

"Phcebe !"  gushed  Miss  Finnegan.    She  burst  past 


194  Phoebe 

Sophie.  "Phoebe!  You  darling!  Oh,  I'm  so  glad 
to  see  you !" 

Phoebe  let  her  book  drop,  still  open,  to  her  knees. 
Very  carefully  she  put  one  forefinger  on  the  line 
she  was  supposed  to  be  reading.  Then  she  raised 
eyes  that  had  in  them  mild  surprise,  and  just  a 
trace  of  sweet  bewilderment. 

"Oh!  How  do  you  do,"  she  answered  politely; 
and  got  up.  "Please  excuse  me.  I — I  get  so  in- 
terested in  my  books.  This  is  'Kenilworth,'  by  Sir 
Walter  Scott.  Of  course  you've  read  it." 

"  'Kenilworth'?"  said  Genevieve.     "Why,  no." 

"You  haven't?"  returned  Phoebe,  shocked.  "Oh, 
my,  that's  too  bad.  After  a  while,  when  you're 
grown  up,  you'll  wish  you'd  read  it.  A  girl  can't 
be  just  fluffy.  And  a  woman  mustn't  be  fluffy.  We 
must  know  things,  and  we  must  be  wise  and — and 
as  much  like  Miss  Ruth  Shepard  as  we  can  pos- 
sibly be." 

Genevieve  blinked,  trying  to  comprehend  this  on- 
rush of  ideas. 

Phoebe  put  her  head  on  one  side  and  smiled. 
"Oh,  I  do  so  enjoy  the  classics,"  she  declared. 

It  was  Genevieve's  turn  to  be  bewildered.  "The 
— classics?"  she  echoed.  "What  are  the  classics?" 


Phoebe  195 

Phoebe  knit  her  brows.  "Why,  they're — they're 
— well,  just  the  most  important  thing.  My  Uncle 
John  says  'The  classics  are  the  foundation  of  cul- 
ture'." 

"Is  that  so!"  pondered  Genevieve.  "Well,  I'd 
better  put  'em  down.  What  did  you  call  'em? 
'Kenihvorth'  ?"  She  drew  a  handsome  leather  note- 
book from  the  richly  embroidered  handbag  on  her 
arm.  "Because  Mamma  says,  'Germans  or  no  Ger- 
mans, with  our  name  we  just  got  to  have  culture'." 
She  touched  her  tongue  with  the  tip  of  a  slender 
gold  pencil  and  wrote. 

Sophie,  backed  against  the  hall-door,  shook  with 
silent  laughter.  As  Phoebe  glanced  her  way, 
roguishly,  Sophie  noiselessly  applauded,  and  sig- 
nalled Phoebe  to  continue  her  tactics. 

Phoebe  assumed  the  grand  air.  "I  suppose  you've 
heard  about  my  father?"  she  began  again. 

"In  Peru,  ain't  he — isn't  he?"  asked  Genevieve. 

"It's  South  America,"  said  Phoebe.  "Only  a  few 
people  ever  go  there.  Daddy  is  such  a  wonderful 
mining  engineer  that  they  just  had  to  have  him." 

Genevieve  put  away  her  notes.  "Well,  I  sup- 
pose now,  the  first  thing  you  know,  your  father'll 
be  getting  married." 


196  Phoebe 

Phcebe  turned  white.  All  the  grand  air  went, 
leaving  her  staring  almost  wildly.  "Married!"  she 
breathed.  "My— father- 

Genevieve  smiled  with  gratification.  Her  shot 
had  gone  home.  "Mamma  says,"  she  went  on 
blandly,  "that  since  this  war,  with  so  many  men 
killed  off,  why,  a  man  that  ain't — I  should  say  isn't 
— married  don't  stand  a  chance." 

Phcebe  flung  "Kenilworth"  down.  "Oh,  but  he 
wouldn't!"  she  cried.  "No!  I  don't  want  to  lose 
him!" 

Sophie  was  at  her  side  in  an  instant.  "Darlin', 
don't  you  believe  it!  He  loves  you,  and  just  no- 
body else."  Then  marching  up  to  Genevieve,  an- 
grily, with  hands  on  hips,  "Say!  What  did  you 
come  here  today  for,  anyhow?" 

Genevieve  lifted  her  shoulders  with  disdain. 
"Mamma  says,"  she  returned  calmly,  "that  you  can 
tell  whether  people  are  nice  or  not  by  their  serv- 
ants." 

"Y*  can!"  taunted  Sophie.  "Well,  'Mammaw' 
sure  oughta  know.  Because  Bridget  Finnegan  was 
oncet  a  servant." 

Genevieve's  face  darkened.  Her  neck  appeared 
to  swell.  "Well,  I  can  tell  you  this  much,"  she  an- 


Phoebe  197 

swered  hotly.  "There  are  some  things  my  mother 
wasn't.  People  have  never  said  that  she " 

"Here !"  stormed  Sophie.  She  caught  Genevieve 
by  a  shoulder. 

"Sophie!"  gasped  Phoebe,  appalled. 

But  Sophie  did  not  hear.  "Now,  you  run  along," 
she  ordered,  showing  Genevieve  toward  the  door. 
"Do  y'  understand  ?" 

Genevieve  went  haughtily.  "I  wouldn't  stay  for 
anything,"  she  declared.  "I'll  wait  for  Miss  Simp- 
son in  my  motor." 

"When  y'  got  your  motor,"  sneered  Sophie, 
"what  a  pity  y'  didn't  get  some  manners !" 

Genevieve  ignored  her.  "Good-bye,  Phoebe,"  she 
said,  from  the  door.  "I  don't  believe  us  Simpson 
girls  will  see  you  again  at  school." 

"I'm  dead  sure  you  won't!"  cried  Sophie,  and 
slammed  the  door  in  Genevieve's  face. 

Phoebe  sighed.  "Now,  she'll  make  Miss  Simp- 
son hate  me,"  she  said  sadly.  "And  so  will  all  the 
girls,  and  they  won't  take  me  back ' 

"Take  you  back!"  raged  Sophie.  "After  they 
sent  you  packin'  home  that  time?  Where's  your 
pride?  If  it  was  me,  I  just  wouldn't  go  back.  And 
your  uncles  and  your  paw  won't  let  y'  when  they 


198  Phoebe 

hear  what  I  tell  'em ! — Phoebe,  you  show  Miss  Simp- 
son that  you  don't  want  her  old  school.  You  turn 
her  down — first!" 

Phoebe  rallied  herself.  She  realized  that  Sophie 
was  speaking  the  truth.  The  quarrel  with  Gene- 
vieve — and  especially  what  Genevieve  had  just  said 
(Phoebe  was  aware  of  an  inference  there),  made 
her  see  that  the  last  bridge  was  burned  between 
her  and  the  Simpson  School.  So  she  might  as  well 
show  indifference  to  the  visiting  Principal,  whose 
voice,  even  now,  could  be  heard  from  the  direction 
of  the  sitting-room. 

"All  right,  Sophie,"  she  whispered  bravely. 
"Don't  you  worry." 

She  caught  up  "Kenilworth"  once  more,  tucked 
herself  into  a  corner  of  the  big  couch,  rested  her 
head  in  a  scholarly  pose  upon  one  hand,  and  lost 
herself  between  the  pages  of  Sir  Walter  Scott. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

"DARLING  Phcebe,"  gushed  Miss  Simpson,  "how 
do  you  do!" 

"How  do  you  do,"  responded  Phcebe,  rising  po- 
litely. 

"It's  so  nice  to  see  you  again,"  went  on  the  Prin- 
cipal. "Oh,  my  dear,  we've  missed  you  so  much!" 

"Thank  you." 

Such  straight  looking  out  of  those  frank  eyes, 
and  such  cool  poise,  was  most  disconcerting.  Miss 
Simpson,  with  a  smile  that  was  wholly  mus- 
cular, changed  the  subject  by  bending  down  to 
Phoebe's  book.  "  'Kenilworth'  ?"  she  cried  in  de- 
lighted surprise.  "Do  you  enjoy  it,  Phoebe?" 

"I  love  it,"  answered  Phoebe,  with  quiet  sincer- 
ity. "Every  day  I  read  it  with  Uncle  John — Sir 
Walter  Scott  in  twelve  volumes." 

Miss  Simpson  turned  to  Grandma,  waiting  and 
smiling  and  nodding  her  white  head  at  the  far  end 
of  the  library  table.  "Dr.  Blair  must  be  such  a 

great  help  to  Phcebe,"  she  declared. 

199 


2OO  Phoebe 

"Oh,  he  is."  Phoebe  did  not  wait  for  Grandma. 
"Uncle  John  is  my  tutor,  and  I  like  having  a  tutor." 

Miss  Simpson  fell  back  a  step,  as  at  some  new  and 
disconcerting  thought.  "Do  you,  dear?"  she  mur- 
mured, and  sank,  still  staring  at  Phoebe,  to  a  con- 
venient chair. 

'I  do,"  returned  Phoebe.  "You  know  princesses 
always  have  governesses  and  tutors.  I've  seen  them 
in  the  movies." 

"The  movies!"  exclaimed  Miss  Simpson. 

"But  Phcebe  doesn't  go  to  them,"  said  Grandma, 
quickly.  "Dear  Phcebe,  you  know  you  don't." 

Phoebe  remembered  what  Sophie  had  said  about 
keeping  one's  chin  up.  She  raised  hers  now.  "I 
used  to,"  she  reminded.  "So  I  know.  And  Uncle 
John  and  I  are  reading  Dickens's  'Child's  History 
of  England' — it's  a  wonderful  book.  Oh,  we've  got 
a  whole  year's  work  planned  out" 

Miss  Simpson  sat  back,  swallowed,  glanced  right 
and  left — then  broke  forth  in  a  smile  that  was  meant 
to  be  warmly  diplomatic.  "I  see,"  she  cooed. 
"But  I've  come  today,  Phcebe,  because — ah — er — 
I'm  calling  on  all  of  my  pupils  for  the  Fall  term, 
and  so " 

Up  went  Phoebe's  chin  another  inch.     She  re- 


Phoebe  201 

turned  the  diplomatic  smile.  "But,  Miss  Simpson," 
she  protested  pleasantly,  "I  wouldn't  change  my 
tutor  for  anything.  Uncle  Bob  says  a  tutor  is  ever 
so  much  more  stylish  than  a  private  school." 

Miss  Simpson's  face  set.  She  rose  as  if  pro- 
pelled upward  by  a  spring.  "However,"  she  said 
icily,  "a  private  school  might  be  of  great  value  to 
you.  It  might  help  to  eradicate  the  effect  of  your 
moving-picture  training,  and  teach  you  that  nice 
little  girls  are  never  loquacious."  Now  she  revolved 
toward  Phoebe's  grandmother.  "Where,  I  wonder, 
is  dear  Genevieve?"  she  inquired. 

"Grandma,"  said  Phoebe,  "Genevieve  didn't  seem 
to  care  a  bit  for  this  wonderful  'Kenilworth',  so 
she's  outside." 

"Good-afternoon,  Mrs.  Blair."  Miss  Simpson 
extended  a  long  arm. 

"But  you'll  have  a  cup  of  tea,  won't  you,  Miss 
Simpson?" — Grandma  was  following  her  guest, 
who  was  even  now  at  the  hall  door.  "The  Judge 
will  be  home,  and  he'll  be  so  glad  to  see  you, 

and "  Miss  Simpson  was  already  in  the  hall; 

Grandma  went  with  her,  closing  the  door  upon  the 
straight-standing,  angry  little  figure  at  the  middle 
of  the  library  floor. 


2O2  Phoebe 

"Yes,  have  a  cup  of  tea,  Miss  Simpson!"  cried 
Phoebe,  wrathful.  "The  Judge'll  be  home  and  he 
won't  be  glad  to  see  you !  You'll  take  me  back,  now 
that  my  mother's  dead!  Well,  you  won't!  I'll  read 
the  classics  first!  Scott!" — she  whirled  "Kenil- 
worth"  to  the  sofa — "And  History !  And  anything !" 
Whereat  she  flung  herself  bodily  atop  the  book  and 
the  sofa,  buried  her  face  in  a  cushion  and  wept. 

"Phoebe!"  It  was  Sophie,  come  to  hear  the  re- 
sults of  the  Simpson  visit  "Whatever  is  the  mat- 
ter?" 

Phoebe  sat  up.  "Lots  of  things,"  she  declared. 
"This  house — it  never  gets  any  smaller.  And 
everybody  grown  up.  And,  oh,  think  of  having 
Uncle  John  six  days  of  the  week  at  home  and 
twice  at  church  on  Sunday !" 

Sophie  laughed.  "Don't  blame  y',"  she  confided. 
"But  I  hope  you  said  No  to  her."  She  jerked  her 
head  toward  the  hall. 

"I  did."  Phoebe  got  up.  Rebellion  flamed  in 
her  cheeks.  "But,  Sophie,  there's  one  thing  sure. 
Something's  got  to  happen:  Public  school  or  the 
movies !" 

"Land  sakes !"  gasped  Sophie.  "Don't  you  know 
your  folks'll  never  let  you  go  to  public  school?" 


Phoebe  203 

"They  won't?"  Phoebe  went  close  to  Sophie,  and 
lowered  her  voice.  "Then  it's  the  movies,"  she  de- 
clared. "I'm  not  going  to  stand  things  any  more. 
I'm  going  to  see  some  pictures  and  I'm  going  with 
you!" 

"Phoebe  Blair!" 

"My  mother  took  me.    It  isn't  wrong." 

"But  the  folks!  If  they  ketch  us "  Sophie 

threw  up  both  hands. 

"They  won't.  They  think  I'm  asleep  at  nine 
o'clock.  We  can  go  just  before  that,  and  see  a 
picture  when  it's  on  for  the  second  time.  We  can 
steal  down  the  back  stairs — I'll  carry  my  shoes. 
Oh,  Sophie,  will  you  do  it?  Say  Yes!  I  haven't 
seen  a  picture  for  months!" 

"We-e-ell," — Sophie  was  visibly  weakening — "I 
might.  Because  I  think  you're  kept  in  too  close. 
And  that  ain't  good  for  any  kid." 

"Oh,  I  want  to  see  just  one  more  five-reeler !" 
pleaded  Phoebe. 

"If  I  take  y'  just  once?"  Sophie  held  up  a  fin- 
ger. 

Phcebe  had  won.  She  threw  her  arms  about 
Sophie,  almost  smothering  her.  "Darling  Sophie! 


204  Phoebe 

Oh,  Sophie,  you're  a  girl,  and  you  understand! — 
Oh,  Sophie,  who's  the  star  I'll  see  tonight?" 

Sophie  half  turned  away.  She  raised  ecstatic 
eyes  to  the  neighborhood  of  Uncle  John's  Map  of 
Palestine.  She  sighed.  "William  S.  Hart,"  she 
half  whispered. 

"William  S.  Hart,"  repeated  Phoebe.  She  echoed 
the  sigh. 

"Oh,  he's  grand!"  breathed  Sophie. 

Phoebe  touched  Sophie  with  an  anxious  hand. 
"What  girl  is  playing  with  him  now?"  she  asked 
jealously. 

"I  don't  remember.  But"— enviously — "she's 
awful  pretty." 

"Does  he — like  her?"  went  or^ Phoebe. 

"Oh,  he's  crazy  about  her!" 

"Mm!"  Phoebe  considered  the  toe  of  a  shoe. 
Now  and  again,  in  the  case  of  this  particular  star, 
she  had  dreamed  dreams.  She  had  looked  for- 
ward to  a  time  when  her  hair  would  be  up  and  her 
dresses  longer;  then,  if  her  plans  worked  out  satis- 
factorily, might  she  not  be  a  moving-picture  actress, 
and  play  with  her  favorite  hero? 

"When  he  told  her  how  he  loved  her,"  mused 


Phoebe  205 

Sophie,  almost  as  if  to  herself,  "and  asked  her  to 
be  his  bride " 

Phoebe  came  back  to  sad  realities.  "How  did 
he  ask  her?"  she  wanted  to  know. 

"She  was  settin',"  recounted  Sophie.  "He  come 
close,  and  looked  at  her.  She  dropped  her  eyes; 
so  he  reached  over  and  took  her  hand.  Next,  down 
he  went  on  one  knee.  'Dear  little  woman,' — that's 
what  it  read  in  print — 'let  us  ride  into  the  sunset 
together !' '  Sophie  gestured,  indicating  a  possi- 
ble sunset. 

"But  did  she  say  Yes?"  inquired  Phoebe,  impa- 
tiently. 

"Well,  not  just  at  first    She  kinda  hung  off " 

"Goodness !"  exclaimed  Phcebe,  incredulous.  She 
walked  to  and  fro,  head  down. 

"But  think  of  it!  A  gang  of  Indians  come 
scootin'  up  to  the  Ranch.  And  he  fought  'em  all, 
and  saved  her.  So  she  took  him,  and  he  kissed 
her !" 

Phcebe  paused.  It  seemed  to  her  then  as  if  she 
were  to  be  penned  up  forever  in  this  small  town 
which  she  so  hated;  as  if  she  would  never  grow 
up,  and  be  able  to  say  what  she  would  do;  as  if 


206  Phoebe 

other  girls — this  William  S.  Hart  girl,  for  instance 
— simply  had  everything.  In  an  excess  of  resent- 
ment she  went  up  to  Uncle  John's  favorite  arm- 
chair— and  kicked  it! 


CHAPTER  XX 

"PHCEBE,  dear,"  cried  Uncle  John,  "I  am  the 
happiest  of  men !" 

Phoebe  was  killing  time — yet  pleasantly,  with  the 
aid  of  "Airy,  Fairy  Lillian."  She  kept  it  boldly 
in  her  lap  as  this  more  formidable  of  her  uncles 
paused  beside  her  chair.  She  was  not  rebellious 
now,  but  she  was  determined.  Of  course  Uncle 
John  would  be  horrified  if  he  were  to  know  about 
her  plans  for  the  coming  evening.  So  he  might 
just  as  well  be  shocked  not  so  completely  by  what 
he  would  surely  regard  as  a  frivolous  book.  Well, 
let  him  be  shocked! 

But  he  did  not  look  at  the  book.  "Grandma  has 
just  told  me,"  he  added. 

"Yes?"  encouraged  Phcebe,  anxious  to  return  to 
Lillian. 

"Oh,  it  has  warmed  my  heart,"  he  declared ;  " — to 
hear  that  you  really  like  my  teaching,  and  the 

literature  that  we've  enjoyed  together.     And  that 

207 


208  Phoebe 

you'd  rather  stay  with  me  than  go  back  to  Miss 
Simpson's." 

"Yes,  I  would." 

"Blessed  little  student!"  He  said  it  lovingly. 
And — wonder  of  wonders! — he  leaned  down  and 
kissed  Phoebe's  hair! 

After  he  was  gone,  Phoebe  sat  for  a  long  while, 
thinking.  Uncle  John  had  been  unusually  kind  and 
tender  to  her — just  at  the  wrong  time!  In  all  the 
past  months,  when  had  he  ever  thought  to  do  more 
than  give  her  an  absent-minded  pat  ?  Why  then  was 
he  being  so  nice  all  at  once,  so  that  her  conscience 
hurt  her? 

She  felt  resentment  toward  Uncle  John. 

She  considered,  too,  his  hatred  of  the  "movies". 
He  had  his  church,  in  which  he  was  supreme.  He 
could  get  up  at  stated  intervals  and  talk  as  much 
as  he  liked,  and  who  dared  interrupt  him  ?  He  had 
music,  as  well,  and  processions.  And  he  was  paid 
for  all  this  (Sophie  declared  him  to  be  the  best- 
paid  clergyman  in  town),  when,  so  far  as  Phoebe 
could  see,  he  was  thoroughly  enjoying  himself  all 
the  time!  Writing  a  sermon  was  not  work.  Mak- 
ing calls  on  people  was  not  work.  It  was  all  a 


Phoebe  209 

weird,  not-to-be-understood  form  of  grown-up 
pleasure. 

Then  why  should  he  interfere  in  what  she  thought 
was  having  a  good  time? 

"He  sha'n't,"  she  said  firmly. 

Other  things  happened  that  afternoon  which 
made  Uncle  John's  conduct  seem  part  of  a  con- 
spiracy. For  here  came  Grandma,  bringing  an  ap- 
ple-turnover. Phoebe  particularly  liked  apple-turn- 
overs. As  she  munched  this  one,  letting  the  flakes 
of  a  deliciously  rich  crust  fall  upon  the  pages  of 
"The  Duchess",  she  could  not  help  but  wonder  if 
Sophie  had  not,  for  some  reason,  confessed  the  plot 
for  that  night,  with  the  result  that  Grandma  was 
resorting  to  bribery! 

Next,  Uncle  Bob  appeared.  He  had  an  oblong 
box  in  one  hand.  The  box  was  elaborately  tied 
with  blue  ribbon.  It  was  chocolates,  and  they  fol- 
lowed the  fate  of  the  turnover.  No  one  had  a  word 
to  say  about  supper,  or  Phoebe's  possible  lack  of 
appetite  for  it.  She  ate,  and  she  read  her  novel 
openly.  And — her  conscience  hurt  more  and  more ! 

But  darkness,  the  love  of  adventure,  and  a  thirst 
for  her  favorite  delight,  helped  her  to  feel  indif- 
ference. Sophie  was  on  the  back  porch  when  Phoebe 


2io  Phoebe 

came  stealing  down.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  as 
the  latter  sat  on  the  bottom  step  to  put  on  her 
shoes.  The  stars  were  out,  the  air  was  soft.  When 
finally,  hand  in  hand,  they  stole  toward  the  back 
gate,  the  perfume  of  Grandma's  flower-beds  gave 
place  to  the  friendly  odors  of  chicken-coop  and 
stable,  and  they  knew  they  were  safe. 

"Now,"  said  Sophie  triumphantly,  as  the  gate 
shut  softly  behind  them. 

"It's  like  a  regular  movie,"  whispered  Phcebe. 
She  danced  up  and  down. 

When  they  reached  the  theatre,  they  went  warily. 
They  waited  in  the  foyer  till  the  lights  were  low- 
ered, after  which  they  fairly  stole  into  their  chairs, 
in  the  last  row.  Here,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  with 
an  occasional  anxious  glance  about  them,  they  sat 
through  the  program. 

Just  before  the  end  of  the  last  picture,  Sophie 
touched  Phoebe,  motioning  her  to  follow.  They 
sought  the  foyer  once  more,  and  saw  the  end  of 
the  evening  story  from  a  position  by  the  door. 
Then  as  the  audience  rose,  out  the  pair  flew,  heads 
down,  to  the  sidewalk. 

Phcebe  had  not   spoken  while  she  wa^   in  the 


Phoebe  211 

theatre.  Now  and  then  she  had  looked  up  at 
Sophie,  or  squeezed  her  arm  gratefully.  She  was 
afraid  of  attracting  attention  to  herself.  But  out 
in  the  open  air  she  burst  forth  gaily.  The  gay 
music,  the  accustomed  entertainment  she  loved,  the 
excitement  of  again  being  part  of  a  crowd,  all  com- 
bined to  make  her  feel  that  she  was  back  once  more 
among  the  old,  happy  days.  With  Sally,  she  had 
been  free  to  come  and  go.  She  loved  freedom. 

Something  curious  happened  just  after  she  and 
Sophie  left  the  theatre.  At  first,  while  they  were 
in  the  more  crowded  part  of  the  town,  Phoebe  did 
not  notice  anything — she  was  too  busy  chattering. 
But  when  they  were  farther  out  toward  the  Blair 
Addition,  Phoebe  realized  that  a  man  was  walking 
rather  close  behind  them,  crossing  a  street  when 
they  crossed  it,  turning  corners  when  they  turned. 
As  they  were  nearly  home  the  man  suddenly  came 
abreast  of  them,  and  greeted  Sophie.  And  he 
seemed  to  be  a  very  good  friend  of  Sophie's,  for  he 
took  her  arm. 

At  the  rear  gate,  Phoebe  went  on  a  few  steps 
alone,  and  then  halted  to  wait.  She  was  not  near 
enough  to  catch  what  the  man  and  Sophie  said : 
she  could  hear  only  the  murmur  of  their  voices. 


212  Phoebe 

Overhead  the  stars  were  low  and  bright.  The  trees 
swayed  in  the  night  wind.  Yet  Phoebe  was  not 
thrilled.  She  did  not  feel  that  romance  was  in  the 
air — not  romance  such  as  "Airy,  Fairy  Lillian"  held 
— not  by  any  means  the  kind  of  romance  that  she 
had  just  enjoyed  at  the  theatre.  She  wished  only 
that  Sophie  would  not  be  silly,  and  would  hurry 
up.  It  was  late.  Phoebe  dreaded  the  climb  in  the 
dark  to  her  room. 

But  no  feeling  either  of  fear  or  remorse  troubled 
her  as  she  prepared  for  bed.  She  had  gained  her 
room  without  discovery.  And  as  it  would  never 
occur  to  any  one  of  the  family  to  suspect  that  she 
might  steal  out  of  an  evening,  there  was  no  rea- 
son to  fret  about  the  next  day.  She  said  her  pray- 
ers hastily  and  sleepily.  And  she  did  not  ask  for 
forgiveness  because  she  had  been  to  the  moving- 
pictures.  They  were  her  right.  They  rounded  out 
that  all  but  perfect  day  that  she  exclaimed  over 
while  she  unlaced  her  shoes. 

Two  nights  later,  she  and  Sophie  went  again, 
and  again  she  saw  the  man.  This  time  he  sum- 
moned enough  courage  to  take  a  seat  beside  Sophie 
in  the  theatre.  And  when  the  lights  went  down, 


Phoebe  213 

he  held  Sophie's  hand.  That  Phoebe  did  not  like 
at  all.  It  was  all  right  on  the  screen,  of  course — 
holding  hands.  But  with  Sophie!  And  so  close! 
It  did  not  seem  nice. 

"Sally  never  acted  like  that,"  Phoebe  told  her- 
self. 

Also  at  the  rear  gate,  as  they  were  returning, 
the  man  grew  bolder.  So  did  Sophie.  From  a  con- 
siderate distance,  Phceoe  saw  the  two  embrace — 
saw  their  faces  touch. 

At  that,  Phoebe  turned  and  walked  away.  She 
was  angered. 

But  when  Sophie  joined  her,  giggling  and  whis- 
pering, she  made  no  comment.  Only  she  resolved 
that  she  would  not  go  out  at  night  with  Sophie 
again  if  the  man  was  to  accompany  them  home. 
And  before  she  lay  down  in  the  dark  to  sleep,  she 
said  a  little  prayer  about  it,  and  promised  that  she 
would  not  break  her  resolve. 

But  a  few  nights  later,  a  change  of  program 
brought  the  moving-picture  version  of  a  play  that 
she  had  seen  acted  in  New  York  by  men  and 
women  who  spoke  their  lines.  It  was  a  tempta- 
tion too  great  to  resist.  "Just  this  once  more," 
vowed  Phoebe. 


214     f  Phoebe 

The  vow  was  to  be  kept — so  far  as  this  par- 
ticular theatre,  and  this  town,  was  concerned;  but 
not  kept  in  the  way  Phoebe  had  meant. 

The  picture  was  wonderful.  She  had  so  much 
to  tell  Sophie — of  the  differences  between  the  play 
as  it  was  flashed  upon  the  cloth  before  them  and 
as  it  was  on  the  speaking  stage.  She  was  joy- 
ous and  excited.  When  the  man  came,  as  before, 
she  was  even  glad,  for  it  was  nice  to  be  able  to 
lean  across  Sophie  and  tell  him  about  the  differ- 
ences. No  regret  for  having  broken  her  resolve 
troubled  her. 

And  then  something  happened — between  Part  I 
and  Part  II  of  the  picture,  when  the  piano  was  going 
merrily,  and  Phoebe  was  looking  over  the  audience. 
At  first,  she  was  conscious  of  a  white  face — a  wom- 
an's face — turned  her  way.  Next,  with  a  sinking 
of  the  heart,  she  knew  the  face — Mrs.  Botts ! 

She  got  up  and  turned  in  the  other  direction. 
Sophie  pulled  at  her  dress,  and  said  something. 
Phcebe  did  not  heed  her.  To  get  away,  that  was 
her  only  thought.  She  fumbled  for,  and  found, 
her  coat,  and  put  on  her  hat.  And  with  Sophie 
trailing  behind  her  as  people  rose  to  let  them  pass, 


Phoebe  215 

Phoebe  led  the  way  out  of  the  theatre  to  the  side- 
walk. 

Mrs.  Botts  faced  them.  There  was  a  cruel  twist 
to  her  thin  mouth.  Her  eyes  were  dancing.  Her 
hands  were  on  her  hips.  Her  head  was  tipped  side- 
wise. 

"So-o-o!"  she  triumphed.  "This  is  the  good 
Phoebe !  She  comes  to  make  trouble  for  neighbors. 
But  she  goes  out  at  night  with  servants.  She  is  a 
sneak !" 

Phcebe  said  nothing.  She  was  too  frightened, 
too  bewildered.  She  guessed  what  Mrs.  Botts  would 
do,  and  was  trying  to  think  how  to  meet  the  in- 
evitable. But  she  looked  at  Mrs.  Botts  calmly 
enough. 

"A  little  sneak!"  repeated  Mrs.  Botts.  "Pah!" 
She  snapped  her  fingers,  threw  back  her  head  with 
a  laugh,  and  walked  away. 

Phoebe  said  nothing.  She  took  Sophie's  hand 
and  started  home.  The  man,  for  once,  did  not  join 
them.  Phoebe  did  not  even  think  about  him.  She 
was  too  miserable. 

Sophie  was  also  speechless,  until,  with  an  ex- 
plosive outburst,  as  they  neared  the  back  gate, 


216  Phoebe 

she  fell  to  crying  and  talking  at  the  same  time. 
Phoebe  patted  her  arm. 

"It's  too  bad,"  she  said.  "You  took  me,  and 
now  they'll  blame  you." 

"What's  done  is  done,"  wept  Sophie. 

"To  think  I  did  it  while  Daddy  was  away!"  ex- 
claimed Phoebe.  Suddenly  she  felt  amazed  at  the 
enormity  of  her  own  conduct.  "How  could  I  ?  Oh, 
Sophie!" 

"That's  just  why  y'  could,"  retorted  Sophie,  with 
a  show  of  spirit.  "Your  maw's  gone,  and  your 
papa's  away,  and  you're  heart-broke.  So,  instead 
of  lettin'  you  cry  your  eyes  out,  I  took  you  to  the 
movies,  and  helped  y'  forget.  But  none  of  them 
will  understand."  She  halted  by  the  chicken-coop 
to  look  up  at  the  house,  dimly  outlined  against  the 
sky. 

Phoebe  looked  up  too.  Sophie's  last  night !  That 
was  her  thought.  Her  only  comfort  was  to  be 
taken  from  her.  With  new  help  at  Grandma's, 
what  kind  of  a  place  would  it  be? 

"Oh,  Sophie,"  she  whispered,  "let  me  go  to 
Grandma's  room  right  now,  and  tell  her,  and  ask 
her  to  forgive  us  both!" 

"Tell!    Oh,  my  goodness!" 


Phoebe  217 

"Or  I'll  wake  up  Uncle  Bob,  Sophie!  Oh,  t 
can't  stand  it !" 

"Do  you  want  me  to  be  fired  ?" 

They  walked  on  a  little.  Phoebe's  head  was 
down,  her  step  lagged.  She  thought  of  Miss  Ruth. 
If  she  could  only  turn  aside  to  the  Shepard  house, 
standing  white  and  temple-like  in  the  starlight. 
There,  so  close,  was  one  who  would  understand. 

Sophie  began  to  whisper  again:  "Don't  peep, 
darlin'.  'Cause  we're  safe.  I'll  watch  the  phone. 
If  Mrs.  Botts  calls  up,  I'll  know  what  to  say.  If 
she  writes,  I'll  burn  the  letter.  And  if  she  dares 
show  her  ugly  face !" 

They  went  up  the  back  stairs  like  shadows. 
Usually  Sophie  did  not  see  Phoebe  into  the  latter's 
room  on  late  returnings  from  the  theatre;  but  this 
time  she  entered,  put  on  the  light,  turned  down  the 
bed,  and  said  a  fond  good-night. 

"I  wish  I  could  tell  somebody,"  Phoebe  insisted. 
"Because  I — I  feel  awfully  bad.  I  think  it's  my 
conscience." 

But  Sophie  shook  her  head.  "If  they  find  out 
about  us,"  she  argued,  "just  remember  this :  They 
can't  fire  you.  So  don't  you  worry." 

"I  won't,"  answered  Phoebe.     But  her  face  was 


2i8  Phoebe 

pale  with  apprehension.  "And,  anyhow,  I've  seen 
three  wonderful  five-reelers." 

But  when  she  was  alone,  and  the  light  was  out, 
she,  too,  broke  down.  "I  deserve  to  be  punished," 
she  confessed.  "I  said  I  wouldn't  go  again,  and 
I  broke  my  word."  She  dropped  to  her  knees  be- 
side the  bed. 

She  prayed  for  her  mother  to  ask  God  to  take 
her.  "I'm  discouraged,"  she  complained.  "Oh, 
Mother,  I  want  to  come  to  you.  Everything  I  like 
to  do  is  bad  in  this  house!"  She  recalled  a  day 
when  Uncle  John  had  been  most  displeased  with 
her  because,  with  an  eye  to  harmonious  color,  she 
had  rearranged  the  books  in  the  library,  putting 
the  green-backed  ones  on  one  shelf,  the  red-backed 
ones  on  another. 

Now,  so  real  was  her  contrition  and  her  fear, 
that  not  once  as  she  knelt  did  it  occur  to  her  that 
what  she  had  done,  and  what  she  was  suffering, 
was  in  any  way  like  a  "movie". 

She  lay  down  at  last,  but  with  eyes  wide  and  star- 
ing into  the  dark.  It  was  one  thing  to  steal  away 
at  night  to  the  movies  with  Sophie,  shoes  in  hand 
till  the  back  steps  were  gained,  giggles  restrained 
till  the  rear  gate  was  left  behind,  spirits  high  be- 


Phcebe  219 

cause  of  what  the  theatre  promised  of  dear  delight, 
the  whole  thing  a  thrilling  adventure:  it  was  an- 
other matter  to  face  out  the  escapade  in  the  full 
light  of  morning. 

Oh,  the  dread  of  it!  For  of  course  Mrs.  Botts 
would  tell.  Then,  what?  There  would  be  bitter 
blame  on  the  part  of  Uncle  John.  He  would  blame 
Sophie  most  (which  was  a  comforting  thought!). 
But  Sophie  was  grown.  Sophie  was  free.  Sophie 
could  be  saucy,  if  she  wanted  to,  and  could  pack 
up,  and  leave,  her  earnings  in  her  purse.  But 
Phoebe  would  have  to  stay;  to  face  it  out  at  the 
table;  to  live  it  down  in  shame. 

"O-o-oh!"  breathed  Phcebe.  She  wrestled  with 
despair. 

A  clock  downstairs  rang  the  hours  until  three. 
Then,  exhausted,  she  slept — and  in  her  sleep  fought 
Mrs.  Botts  hand  to  hand. 

When  she  awoke,  she  was  sitting  up.  Dawn  was 
at  hand.  She  could  tell  that  by  the  thin,  white 
horizontal  lines  of  the  shutters.  She  sprang  out 
of  bed  and  began  to  dress. 

Once  she  had  packed  to  run  away.  There  was 
no  time  to  pack  now.  To  go,  that  was  her  only 
thought.  She  ran  a  comb  through  her  hair.  She 


22O  Phoebe 

threw  her  serge  coat  over  her  arm,  and  took  her 
hat  in  her  hand.  Then  with  a  hurried  good-bye 
kiss  for  her  mother's  pictured  face,  she  stole  out 
and  down,  bound  for  New  York,  and  the  dear  apart- 
ment, and  faithful  Sally. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

IT  was  a  glorious  morning.  The  sun  was  not  up 
yet,  so  the  air  was  cool — even  crisp;  and  Phoebe, 
making  her  way  quietly  through  the  rear  gate  and 
along  that  road  used  by  the  tradesmen,  had  to  slip 
on  her  coat.  She  halted  a  moment  under  some  trees 
that  stood,  occupying  a  whole  lot,  between  the  Blair 
house  and  the  railroad  station.  And  as  she  settled 
her  coat,  the  birds  called  down  at  her.  They  were 
just  awaking! 

Phoebe  had  no  thought  of  taking  a  train  for  New 
York.  In  the  first  place,  she  had  no  money,  hav- 
ing spent  her  last  penny  at  the  theatre;  in  the  sec- 
ond place,  the  station-agent  knew  her,  and  would 
report  her  departure.  She  did  not  even  go  near 
the  station.  What  she  did  was  to  take  her  direc- 
tion from  it  down  the  long  macadam  road  that  led, 
straight  and  smooth,  beside  the  double  line  of  rails. 

That  way  lay  New  York!  She  would  walk  till 
an  automobile  came  by.  Then  she  would  ride  as 
far  as  possible,  perhaps  walk  some  more,  sleep  at 

221 


222  Phoebe 

pleasant  farm-houses  along  the  route,  take  up  her 
journey  the  following  morning,  and  thus,  by  easy 
stages,  reach  the  loved  city  and  Sally. 

The  whole  plan  seemed  so  feasible  that  as  she 
turned  into  the  road  at  a  point  well  south  of  the 
station,  she  wondered  why  she  had  never  thought  of 
it  before.  And  it  was  so  jolly,  trotting  along  like 
this!  She  felt  free,  and  strong,  and  happy.  And 
very  brave. 

"Mother  would  want  me  to  leave  there,"  she  told 
herself.  "She  never  liked  any  of  them." 

The  sun  came  up.  The  birds  began  their  morn- 
ing songs.  Phoebe  took  off  her  coat,  then  her  hat. 
When  she  spied  an  automobile  rushing  toward  her 
from  the  distance,  she  went  aside  to  crouch  in  the 
deep,  weed-grown  ditch  that  stretched  between  the 
wagon  road  and  the  track,  covered  her  face  with  her 
coat,  stayed  motionless  for  a  few  minutes — then 
went  merrily  on. 

It  was  the  first  eluding  of  a  car  bound  town- 
ward  that  made  her  think  how  exciting  this  ad- 
venture of  hers  was.  And  with  that  thought  came 
another — a  wonderful  one !  It  made  her  heart  beat 
fast.  She  fairly  skipped.  Tears  of  joy  sprang  to 


Phoebe  223 

her  eyes.  She  would  be  a  moving-picture  actress! 
And  act  with  William  S.  Hart! 

Why  had  she  never  thought  of  leaving  before — 
to  carry  out  the  plan? 

She  was  so  happy  over  her  determination  that 
she  all  but  allowed  herself  to  be  seen  by  an  auto- 
mobile that,  with  milk-cans  rocking  and  clanking, 
shot  past  on  its  way  out  of  town.  She  was  not 
ready  yet  to  ask  for  a  ride.  That  would  come  later, 
when  a  village  to  the  south  was  at  her  back,  and 
the  chances  of  her  being  recognized  had  lessened. 
Just  now,  with  her  new  idea  in  mind,  she  felt  so 
happy  and  light-footed  that  she  needed  no  rides. 
She  knew  she  could  go  on  walking  all  day! 

But  there  was  something  she  had  forgotten: 
breakfast.  Very  soon  she  remembered  it — at  about 
the  time  she  was  accustomed  to  having  it.  And  as 
she  trotted  along  she  thought  of  her  cereal  and 
cream,  her  three-minute  egg,  and  the  little  stack  of 
crisp,  hot  buttered  toast  that  Sophie  always  brought 
with  the  egg. 

Phoebe  looked  on  either  hand  for  houses.  She 
had  passed  quite  a  few,  but  they  were  set  so  far 
back  from  the  highway  that  she  had  not  feared 
being  seen  from  them.  But  if  she  was  to  have  even 


224  Phoebe 

a  bite  of  breakfast,  would  it  not  be  necessary  to  go 
boldly  up  to  one,  and  ring  the  bell,  and  ask  for 
food? 

"No,"  said  Phoebe,  aloud.  "They'd  telephone 
straight  into  town.  I'll  just  have  to  stand  it  till  I 
get  farther." 

Her  trot  changed  to  a  trudge.  The  summer  sun 
climbed  the  sky,  and  the  coolness  went  out  of  the 
air.  She  grew  thirsty,  and  forgot  her  hunger  in 
her  desire  for  water.  What  made  things  harder 
was  the  fact  that  automobiles  or  wagons  were  fre- 
quent now,  and  she  had  to  be  on  the  lookout  con- 
stantly, and  was  constantly  compelled  to  forsake 
the  road  for  the  deep  ditch  while  travellers  went  by. 

Then  there  were  the  trains — both  freight  and 
passenger.  She  hid  from  them.  From  the  north 
they  might  carry  people  who  would  know  that  she 
was  missing;  from  the  south  they  would  take  news 
of  a  lone  little  girl  walking  toward  New  York. 

Toward  noon  she  went  aside  into  a  clump  of 
trees  to  rest.  Here  she  found  water — a  shallow, 
unshaded  pool  of  it.  But  it  was  not  the  kind  she 
had  always  been  accustomed  to,  cold  and  limpid  and 
clean;  it  was  warm,  and  a  thin  scum  floated  upon 
its  surface.  Also,  there  were  long-legged,  nervous 


Phoebe  225 

insects  going  about  upon  it  jerkily.  She  had  to 
drive  them  away  before  she  could  drink. 

Once  she  had  left  the  New  York  road,  somehow 
she  did  not  want  to  return  to  it.  She  was  afraid 
of  discovery.  As  noon  came  and  passed,  there  were 
more  automobiles  and  wagons  to  elude,  and  even 
more  trains.  Once  she  saw  a  man  on  foot,  with 
a  dog  at  his  heels.  She  remembered  a  moving  pic- 
ture she  had  once  seen  in  which  dogs  had  been  used 
to  find  a  murderer.  She  wondered  if  the  man  and 
the  dog  would  not  soon  be  hunting  for  her ! 

At  that  she  started  off  once  more,  going  parallel 
to  track  and  road,  but  keeping  well  out  of  sight 
from  both.  This  meant  hard  work,  for  there  was 
cultivated  land  to  cross,  there  were  fences  to  climb, 
and  whenever  a  house  loomed  up  ahead,  it  was 
necessary  for  Phoebe  to  make  what  to  her  was  a 
heart-breaking  detour. 

By  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  she  was  exhaust- 
ed. Ahead  of  her,  in  a  field,  she  saw  a  hay-stack. 
She  was  famished,  and  more  thirsty  than  ever. 
But  her  knees  were  failing  her.  Above  all  things 
she  needed  rest.  She  crossed  the  field,  sought  the 
shady  side  of  the  stack,  gathered  together  a  little 


226  Phoebe 

loose  hay  with  which  to  make  a  bed,  and  dropped 
upon  it,  her  hat  screening  her  face. 

She  awoke  with  a  start,  knowing  she  was  not 
alone,  and  with  a  cry  of  fear  scrambled  to  her  feet. 
A  man  was  beside  her — a  young  man  with  a  very 
brown  face,  and  dark  eyes  that  twinkled.  He  had 
curly  black  hair,  and  wore  a  black  slouch  hat. 

"Hullo,"  said  the  man,  grinning. 

"Goo-good-afternoon,"  returned  Phoebe,  catch- 
ing up  her  hat  as  she  backed  away.  She  did  not 
like  the  looks  of  the  man.  He  made  her  think  of 
gypsies. 

"What  you  doin'  out  here?"  went  on  the  stranger. 
He  looked  her  over  impudently. 

Phoebe  knew  that  she  must  give  this  man  a  satis- 
factory answer.  And  she  felt,  she  scarcely  knew 
why,  that  she  must  not  let  him  think  she  was  alone. 
"My  father  has  just  gone  over  to  that  house,"  she 
answered,  trying  to  keep  her  voice  even.  "I'm  very 
hungry,  and  my  father  has  gone  to  get  me  some- 
thing to  eat." 

"Is  that  so!"  The  man  considered  her  explana- 
tion, and  even  turned  about  to  look  toward  the 
house  she  had  indicated.  "Well,  how  does  it  hap- 


Phoebe  227 

pen  your  father  and  you  are  hangin'  around  this 
hay-field?"  he  persisted. 

"Well," — Phoebe  saw  that  she  had  partly  con- 
vinced him — "my  father's  automobile  broke  down, 
over  there  on  the  road.  But  I  had  to  have  some- 
thing to  eat  before  he  fixed  it,  so  he's  going  to  ask 
for  food  over  there,  and  for  gasoline." 

"Say!"  resumed  the  young  man,  dropping  his 
voice  confidentially;  "you  stay  here,  and  I'll  go 
over  and  meet  your  father,  and  help  him  carry  the 
things — eh  ?" 

"All  right,"  agreed  Phoebe,  heartily.  (Anything 
to  get  rid  of  the  stranger!)  "And  tell  my  father 
please  to  bring  plenty  of  water."  (This  was  a 
master  stroke!) 

"I'll  bring  it.  Now,  you  set  down,  and  I'll  be 
back  with  water  and  grub  in  no  time."  He  gave 
her  a  final  look,  then  started  off  quickly. 

It  was  plain  that  he  only  half  believed  her.  He 
was  going  to  learn  for  himself  whether  or  not 
her  father  was  at  the  farm-house.  He  was  counting 
on  her  hunger  and  thirst  to  hold  her  there  in  the 
strip  of  shade  while  he  was  gone.  Her  instinct 
told  her  that. 

It  told  her  more.    She  knew  she  must  get  away. 


228  Phoebe 

But  not  at  once.  The  shady  side  of  the  stack  did 
not  face  toward  the  farm-house.  Soon  the  man, 
reaching  the  fence  that  skirted  the  yard,  would  be 
out  of  sight  of  Phoebe  were  she  to  remain  in  the 
shade,  for  a  corner  of  the  hay  would  hide  her.  She 
waited. 

Presently,  peering  around  that  corner,  she  saw 
the  man  climb  the  fence.  As  he  stepped  on  the 
farther  side,  she  stood  boldly  in  sight.  He  looked 
around  toward  her,  and  she  swung  her  hat  at  him ! 

He  waved  back,  and  turned  away. 

Then  she  ran — straight  in  the  opposite  direction, 
and  as  hard  as  she  could  go.  Terror  gave  her 
strength,  terror  of  she  knew  not  what.  She  for- 
got hunger  and  thirst  and  weariness :  she  thought 
only  of  putting  distance  between  herself  and  that 
man. 

Her  way  led  her  back  to  the  road.  Even  as  she 
set  foot  upon  it,  an  automobile  turned  into  it  from 
a  side  lane  that  ran  at  right  angles  to  road  and 
track.  The  machine  was  a  small,  open  car,  driven 
by  an  elderly  man.  Phoebe  went  to  the  middle  of 
the  road  and  held  up  her  hand. 

"He  isn't  from  town,"  she  argued.  "Nobody's 
told  him  about  me." 


Phoebe  229 

The  elderly  man  stopped.  "Want  a  ride?"  he 
called  down  cheerily. 

"Would  you  mind?"  inquired  Phoebe.  "You  see 
I  want  to  go  to  town,  because  my  aunt,  who's 
camping  over  here," — she  waved  a  hand  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  hay-stack — "feels  sort  of  sick,  and 
wants  some  medicine." 

"Climb  in,"  was  the  hearty  invitation. 

Phcebe  climbed.  Then,  calling  upon  her  imagina- 
tion, and  aided  by  moving-picture  plots  she  could 
recall,  she  told  the  elderly  man  all  about  herself  and 
her  aunt,  and  how  they  came  to  be  camping  out  be- 
hind a  hay-stack  in  a  farmer's  field.  And  so  real 
was  her  story,  and  so  genuine  seemed  her  concern 
for  her  aunt,  that  the  elderly  man  was  hugely  in- 
terested, and  gave  Phcebe  some  plums  out  of  his 
coat  pocket. 

As  they  spun  along,  Phcebe  fell  to  wondering 
what  she  would  do  when  they  arrived  in  town. 
For  she  feared  the  man  would  take  her  directly 
to  a  drug-store,  and  there  she  would  have  to  con- 
fess that  she  had  no  money.  Of  course  she  could 
say  that,  somehow,  she  had  lost  it.  But  suppose 
the  man  not  only  bought  the  medicine  she  would 


230  Phoebe 

have  to  ask  for,  but  insisted  on  carrying  her  back 
to  a  point  on  the  road  nearest  that  stack! 

Worse!  Suppose  as  they  entered  the  little  town 
that  an  officer  of  the  law  hailed  them,  to  ask  if 
Phoebe  was  not  the  little  girl  who  had  run  away  that 
morning!  And  suppose 

But  to  Phoebe's  intense  relief  none  of  the  sev- 
eral possibilities  she  feared  came  to  pass.  For  the 
reason  that  the  man,  when  he  reached  the  outskirts 
of  the  town,  came  to  a  stop  and  explained  that  he 
would  have  to  turn  aside  for  a  mile  or  so,  and 
would  not  be  able  to  take  Phoebe  all  the  way  into 
town. 

"Just  the  same,"  he  added,  "if  you'll  be  at  this 
spot  an  hour  from  now,  I'll  pick  you  up  as  I  start 
home." 

"Oh,  thank  you!"  exclaimed  Phoebe,  grateful. 
But  she  was  not  thanking  him  for  his  offer.  Her 
gratitude  was  for  the  ride  and  for  the  almost 
miraculous  escape  from  being  carried  into  town. 
She  climbed  down,  waved  a  good-bye,  and  watched 
the  little  open  car  whirl  away  in  a  cloud  of  dust 
down  a  long  dirt  road  that  led  under  a  small  bridge. 

That  bridge  gave  her  an  idea.    She  had  the  plums, 


Phoebe  231 

and  she  was  too  tired  to  go  farther  until  she  had 
more  rest  and  sleep.  "I'll  hide,"  she  determined, 
"and  I'll  eat  two  of  the  plums,  and  then  I'll  sleep. 
And  early  tomorrow  morning,  I'll  go  round  this 
town  before  anybody's  up." 

At  one  end  of  the  bridge,  and  under  it,  where 
the  timbers  met  the  earth,  there  was  a  little  scooped- 
out  place,  as  if  some  one  no  larger  than  Phoebe  had 
been  there  before  her  and  hollowed  a  resting  place 
for  her.  She  crawled  into  it,  lay  on  one  side  with 
her  face  toward  the  macadam  road,  ate  all  of  the 
plums,  broke  the  pits  by  using  two  stones  that  were 
at  hand,  ate  the  pits  and  liked  them,  then  covered 
herself  with  her  coat,  laid  her  head  on  her  hat, 
and  slept. 

First,  however,  she  said  her  prayers.  She  re- 
membered that  she  had  told  lies  that  afternoon.  "I 
had  to  tell  them,"  she  pleaded.  None  the  less,  they 
were  lies,  and  she  dared  not  sleep  with  them  on  her 
conscience. 

When  she  awoke,  it  was  night,  and  she  was  cold. 
What  awoke  her  was  a  train,  plunging  past  her 
overhead,  with  shrieks  of  its  whistle,  a  roar  of 
wheels,  and  a  clanking  as  of  many  chains. 


232  Phoebe 

She  smiled  to  herself  in  the  dark.  What  would 
the  people  on  the  train  say  if  they  knew  that  be- 
neath them,  as  they  tore  along,  was  a  little  girl  who 
was  running  away?  "Some  day,  when  I'm  a  fa- 
mous actress,"  she  promised  herself,  "I'll  write  all 
about  this  to  the  newspapers.  And  then  the  people 
in  the  train  will  remember,  and  be  awfully  inter- 
ested." 

She  was  strangely  unafraid.  For  one  reason, 
she  felt  so  secure.  In  the  first  place,  she  must  be 
many  miles  from  home.  They  would  not  think  of 
searching  for  her  at  such  a  distance.  If  they  did, 
who  in  the  world  would  ever  dream  (if  he  were  to 
pass  that  bridge)  that  she  was  curled  up  snugly 
under  one  end  of  it?  "I  couldn't  have  found  a  bet- 
ter place,"  she  declared,  pleased  with  her  own  judg- 
ment. "Tomorrow  night  I'll  hunt  another  bridge 
just  like  this." 

She  tucked  her  coat  more  carefully  about  her, 
then  composed  herself  for  more  sleep.  She  heard 
little  noises  about  her,  as  if  a  rabbit  were  out,  or 
a  badger.  She  felt  that  rabbits  and  badgers  would 
add  a  touch  to  her  story — that  story  she  would  write 
about  herself  when  she  was  famous.  She  began  to 


Phoebe  233 

word  it  now.  The  account  merged  into  something 
her  father  was  saying.  It  was:  "She  hasn't  gone 
past  here.  I  feel  sure  of  that.  Let's  take  our 
time " 


CHAPTER  XXII 

"LET'S  take  time " 

Phoebe  opened  her  eyes.  It  was  broad  daylight. 
Another  train  was  passing  overhead,  shutting  out 
the  sound  of  the  voice.  She  raised  herself  a  little, 
and  peered  to  both  sides. 

What  she  saw  was  men — two  lines  of  them! 
Each  was  a  little  distance  away  from  his  nearest 
neighbors.  All  were  walking  in  the  same  direction 
— toward  the  little  town.  The  train  gone,  Phoebe 
could  hear  the  men  calling-  to  one  another.  She 
wondered  what  it  was  all  about. 

Then  she  knew!  They  were  hunting  her!  If 
they  found  her,  they  would  drag  her  out,  all  dusty 
as  she  was,  and  carry  her  back  with  them.  And 
she  would  be  laughed  at,  and  talked  about,  and 
pointed  out,  as  if  she  were  wicked,  or  crazy. 

Once  she  had  told  herself  that  she  did  not  care 
what  the  town  thought  or  said.  Now  she  knew  that 
if  she  were  to  return,  a  culprit,  she  could  not  bear 

it,  could  not  face  anyone  again.     She  had  feared 

234 


Phoebe  235 

to  face  them  all — Uncle  John  in  particular — after 
her  discovery  by  Mrs.  Botts.  But  now — !  This 
was  a  thousand  times  worse! 

When  Uncle  John  had  told  her  that  her  mother 
was  dead,  she  had  not  thought  of  dying.  But  now 
she  longed  to  die.  There  flashed  across  her  mind 
the  picture  of  herself  as  they  would  find  her.  Per- 
haps she  would  be  lying,  pale  and  still,  on  some 
flowery,  sunny  slope,  where,  faint  from  lack  of 
food  and  drink,  she  had  at  last  sunk  down.  Or, 
better  still,  she  would  be  washed  by  the  waves  to- 
ward some  shore,  and  the  moon  would  shine  on  her 
white  face,  and  her  hair  would  float  out  on  the 
water. 

She  heard  steps.  Farther  back  against  the  tim- 
bers she  crouched,  and  held  her  hat  before  her 
face. 

Then  the  voice  began  again — "Somebody 
would've  seen  her,  I  tell  you,  if  she'd  passed."  She 
lifted  her  head,  unable  to  believe  her  ears.  Her 
father's  voice!  And  he  was  in  Peru! 

Then  two  men  moved  into  sight  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  wide  road.  One  was  a  stranger.  The 
other  was  her  father.  As  they  halted  under  the 
bridge,  Phcebe  gave  a  great  cry,  and  half  crawled, 


236  Phoebe 

half  rolled,  from  her  hiding-place.  Her  face  was 
streaked  with  dirt,  her  hair  tangled,  her  dress 
rumpled.  Sobbing,  she  almost  fell  down  the  em- 
bankment to  her  father's  arms. 

"Daddy!  Oh,  Daddy!  Daddy!  Oh,  Daddy,  for- 
give me!  Forgive !" 

He  caught  her  to  him,  and  she  knew  that  he  was 
weeping,  too.  Oh,  the  joy  of  having  his  arms  about 
her,  of  feeling  herself  back  in  his  tender  care! 
Men  were  running  toward  them  from  both  direc- 
tions, shouting  as  they  came.  Shots  were  being 
fired.  It  was  all  because  she  was  found.  But  she 
hid  her  face  and  clung  to  heir  father.  What  mat- 
tered if  only  she  had  him? 

"Dear  baby !"  he  was  saying.  "Oh,  my  precious 
little  girl!  Oh,  were  they  bad  to  her  while  Daddy 
was  away  ?  He'll  never  go  again — he'll  never  leave 
his  darling  again " 

He  carried  her  through  the  crowd  that  had  gath- 
ered, and  stepped  with  her  into  the  tonneau  of  an 
automobile.  The  car  turned  slowly.  A  great  cheer 
went  up.  Nearby  a  church  bell  began  to  ring. 
Then  the  ride  home  began. 

Phcebe  lay  as  she  had  lain  that  afternoon  and 
evening  on  the  train,  her  head  pillowed  on  her  fa- 


Phoebe  237 

ther's  shoulder,  her  feet  curled  up  on  the  wide  seat. 
But  now  her  father  talked  to  her,  lovingly,  sooth- 
ingly. 

"She  wanted  to  go  back  to  New  York,  my  baby," 
he  said. 

"Yes— oh,  yes!" 

"Well,  she  shall!    She  shall!" 

"Oh,  Daddy,  do  you  mean  it  ?" 

"Darling,  I  was  keeping  that  as  a  surprise." 

She  threw  her  arms  about  him.  She  drew  her- 
self up  so  that  she  could  speak,  her  lips  at  his  ear. 
The  man  who  was  driving  them — he  must  not 
hear.  "Daddy,"  she  whispered,  "just  you  and  I 
will  go?  Nobody  else?" 

He  was  puzzled.  "Why — why,  who  else?"  he 
asked. 

"Oh,  nobody,  Daddy!  Thank  you!  Thank 
you !"  Contentedly  she  rested  her  cheek  once  more 
against  his  coat. 

"The  little  apartment  is  all  ready,"  he  went  on; 
"and  Sally  is  waiting.  And  down  there  not  a  soul 
shall  ever  know " 

She  nodded.     "About  this." 

"Not  a  soul,"  he  promised.  Then  to  the  man, 
"Speed  up!" 


238  Phoebe 

They  were  nearing  town  now.  The  driver  fairly 
tore  past  the  depot,  and  along  one  short  street 
to  the  gate  of  the  Blair  grounds.  The  gate  was 
open,  and  the  car  whisked  through  a  little  group  of 
the  curious  who  were  waiting.  Another  group, 
with  more  boldness,  was  at  the  front  porch.  But 
the  automobile  did  not  stop  here.  Taking  to  the 
lawn,  it  circled  the  house  to  the  rear  entrance. 
Grandma  was  there.  And  Phoebe's  father  was  out 
of  the  tonneau  and  up  the  steps  to  the  kitchen  be- 
fore anyone  could  follow  them. 

In  the  rear  hall,  Phoebe  was  set  upon  her  feet. 
Her  father  knelt  beside  her,  wiping  her  face  and 
smoothing  her  hair.  Grandma  joined  them,  speak- 
ing not  at  all,  but  shaking  her  head  very  hard. 
There  were  tears  on  her  old  cheeks.  Grandma  did 
not  look  angry — only  glad  and  sad !  Phoebe,  glanc- 
ing at  her,  knew  that  in  the  future  there  would 
never  be  any  blaming  on  Grandma's  part. 

But  Uncle  Bob! — what  about  him?  He  was  the 
Children's  Judge,  used  to  dealing  with  young 
wrong-doers.  Mrs.  Botts  had  called  Phoebe  "a 
little  sneak".  What  would  Uncle  Bob  do  to  a  little 
sneak  ? 

All  nervous  and  frightened  and  tired  as  she  was, 


Phoebe  239 

there  flashed  across  her  brain  the  picture  of  herself 
up  before  this  dearer  of  her  two  uncles — before 
him  at  the  very  bar  of  his  terrible  Court,  her  head 
hanging  while  scores  of  strangers  stared  at  her, 
and  Uncle  Bob  passed  judgment! 

Then  she  heard  the  door  open.  It  was  not  Sophie 
— the  step  was  too  slow  and  too  heavy.  The  door 
closed,  softly. 

Phoebe  knew  who  it  was ;  she  held  her  breath. 

"Little  old  dumpling!" 

Phoebe  turned.  "Oh,  Uncle  Bob,  I'm  sorry — and 
— and  I'm  ashamed!" 

"I  see  both  sides  of  this  question,"  he  said  gently. 

She  held  out  her  arms  in  a  wild,  tearful  appeal. 
"Then  you  won't  arrest  me !  You  won't  take  me  to 
Court!" 

It  brought  him  to  her  in  a  rush.  He  put  his 
arms  about  her,  and  gave  a  great  gulping  laugh, 
and  hugged  her. 

In  Phoebe's  inmost  soul  there  was  no  real  fear 
of  his  punishing  her  publicly.  But  the  growing 
woman  in  her  sensed  the  dramatic,  and  enjoyed  it. 
Also,  she  knew  how  to  touch  the  big  heart  of  this 
uncle;  the  heart  of  her  father,  too! 

"Phoebe!" — Uncle  Bob  was  reproving  her  lov- 


240  Phoebe 

ingly.  "Going  to  the  movies  isn't  a  State's  Prison 
offence — not  yet!" 

She  felt  suddenly  weak  and  faint.  Someone  put 
a  glass  to  her  lips — a  glass  of  warm  milk.  It  was 
Grandma.  She  tried  to  smile  as  she  drank.  Grand- 
ma was  smiling  at  her. 

When  the  glass  was  drained,  Uncle  Bob  caught 
her  up.  "No,  Jim,  let  me  carry  her,"  he  begged. 
(Phoebe  felt  like  a  real  heroine!) 

At  that  moment,  the  thing  most  dreaded  came 
to  pass.  The  dining-room  door  opened.  Through 
it  came  Uncle  John.  "My  dear  child,"  he  began. 

Uncle  Bob  halted,  Phoebe  in  his  arms.  "Not  a 
word!"  he  cried,  his  voice  trembling  with  anger. 
"I  won't  have  Phoebe  picked  on.  If  you're  wise, 
you'll  stop  righting  the  movies  and  fight  with  them 
— fight  for  better  pictures.  Don't  tear  down — im- 
prove!" Then  he  went  on. 

There  was  a  happy  surprise  awaiting  Phoebe 
when  her  room  was  reached.  The  surprise  was 
Miss  Ruth,  with  one  of  Sophie's  big  aprons  pinned 
about  her.  She  received  Phoebe  from  Uncle  Bob, 
and  there  was  no  mistaking  her  joy.  It  was  Miss 
Ruth  who  tended  Phoebe,  undressed  and  bathed  her, 
helped  her  to  bed,  and  brought  her  the  broth. 


Phoebe  241 

"You  won't  go,  will  you?"  whispered  Phoebe, 
lying  back  among  the  pillows.  "Please  don't  leave 
me!" 

"I  wouldn't  think  of  it,"  declared  Miss  Ruth. 
She  took  a  seat  beside  the  bed. 

Phoebe  sighed,  snuggled  her  cheek  against  Miss 
Ruth's  hand,  and  slept. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

UNCLE  BOB  was  exasperated.  He  was  talking  to 
Phoebe's  father.  Phcebe  could  hear  him,  from 
where  she  lay  on  the  sofa  in  Grandma's  bedroom. 

"A  person  would  think  you're  first-cousin  to  a 
mule!"  cried  Uncle  Bob.  "What  makes  you  so 
stubborn,  Jim?  Don't  you  see  what  you  ought  to 
do! — Oh,  my  goodness,  the  thing  is  all  so  simple!" 

Phoebe  could  hear  someone  walking,  to  and  fro, 
to  and  fro,  across  Uncle  Bob's  room.  Then,  "Well, 
you  see,  old  man,  the  trouble  is  there  isn't  any- 
body,"— and  Phoebe's  father  laughed.  (What 
were  they  talking  about?) 

"You  can't  think  of  anybody?"  scolded  Uncle 
Bob.  "Well,  I  can." 

"Yes?" 

"I've  got  it  all  fixed  up." 

The  footsteps  halted.  Aga,in  Phoebe's  father 
laughed.  "You're  a  wonder!"  he  cried.  "Well, 
your  Honor,  who  is  it?" 

"You  know." 

242 


Phoebe  243 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  Phoebe's 
father  answered  then,  but  he  spoke  very  gravely. 
"No,  no,"  he  said.  "I  know  who  you  mean.  And 
that  would  never  do." 

"What's  the  matter  with  her?"  Uncle  Bob  was 
impatient. 

"Nothing," — calmly.  Phcebe  heard  the  scratch 
of  a  match. 

"You  bet  your  life  there's  nothing  the  matter 
with  her!"  (Who  was  "her"?) 

"What  makes  you  think  she'd  fall  in  with  your 
plans,  old  brother?" 

"First  hand  information.  She  told  me  that  she 
cared." 

Phoebe's  father  laughed  again,  but  in  a  curious 
way.  "I  don't  believe  it,"  he  said. 

"It's  true.  I  made  her  confess."  (Confess! 
"Are  they  talking  about  me?"  Phcebe  asked  her- 
self.) 

"Bob!— But  that  wasn't  fair!  not  fair  to  her!" 

"I  know,"  agreed  Uncle  Bob,  contritely.  "But 
I  did  it  for  the  sake  of  the  child. — Oh,  Jim,  before 
you  go " 

"Before  I  go,"  returned  Phoebe's  father,  quietly, 
"I  won't  do  something  unworthy." 


244  Phoebe 

"Unworthy?    What  do  you  mean?" 

"Along  with  the  rest,  Bob,  I  happen  to  know  that 
you  care." 

"If—  Say!"  Now  Uncle  Bob  laughed.  "Who 
on  earth's  been  telling  you  fish  stories?" 

"Bob,  you're  a  wise  old  bird.  But  you  don't 
fool  me." 

"Jim,  you've  been  listening  to  one  of  Phoebe's 
moving-picture  yarns !"  (Phoebe  sat  up.  They  did 
mean  her!) 

"Judge,"  said  Phoebe's  father,  "I  can  beat  you 
at  golf." 

It  was  then  that,  suddenly,  Uncle  Bob  seemed 
completely  to  change.  He  grew  more  earnest,  his 
voice  rose.  "Oh,  listen,  Jim!"  he  begged.  "I've 
taken  her  around  a  little " 

"No,  Bob,— no!  no!  no!" 

Phcebe  leaned  back,  completely  at  a  loss  to  un- 
derstand any  of  it.  Fish  stories?  Moving-pic- 
tures? Golf?  And  that  "her"  again! 

"Yes,  I  tell  you!"  insisted  Uncle  Bob.  "You 
ought  to  have  done  this  fifteen  years  ago." 

"Is  that  so!"  retorted  Phoebe's  father,  sarcastic- 
ally. "Well,  fifteen  years  ago  I  wouldn't  step  in 
your  way." 


Phoebe  245 

"I!"  Uncle  Bob  laughed,  but  not  pleasantly. 
"Old,  and  fat,  and  bald." 

"I  will  not  do  it,"  said  Phoebe's  father. 

"And  I  won't  be  a  dog  in  the  manger!"  Uncle 
Bob  struck  a  hard  surface  with  his  fist. 

"Bob,  please  drop  it." 

"You're  a  nice  father!"  taunted  Uncle  Bob. 
"You're  a  peach !  Letting  me  or  anyone  else  come 
before  Phoebe."  ("It  is  about  me,"  declared 
Phoebe.  "I'm  'her,'  after  all.")  "My  life's  half  over, 
Jim  :  Hers  is  just  beginning." 

"You're  a  blessed  old  brother," — and  Phoebe 
could  tell  that  her  father  felt  deeply  as  he  spoke, 
for  his  voice  shook.  "But  listen  to  me,  Bob: 
When  we  went  tramping,  as  boys,  if  I  got  tired  you 
always  dragged  me  along  by  the  hand.  And  how 
you  always  shared  everything  with  me!  Well, 
you're  my  old  side  partner,  and  I  won't  do  this 
thing— I  won't !" 

"Jim,  I'm  a  poor  pill  if  I  can't  practice  what  I'm 
always  preaching  from  the  Bench :  The  child  comes 
first." 

"Listen!"  insisted  Phoebe's  father,  gently.  "I 
had  my  chance  at  happiness,  Bob,  and  I  made  a  mess 
of  it.  But — I've  got  Phoebe,  and  you " 


246  Phoebe 

"Forget  me!  I'm  out  of  it.  And  why  should 
you  cheat  yourself?  And  her?'* 

"Sh!" 

Phoebe's  father  was  standing  in  the  door  of 
Grandma's  room,  staring  down  at  the  figure  on 
the  sofa.  "Have  you  been  here  all  the  time?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes,  Daddy." 

"Mm.    Haven't  been  asleep,  I  suppose?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Well,  do  you  think  you  can  stand  some  very 
good  news  ?"  He  came  to  her. 

"Oh, — not  back! — not  New  York! — oh!"  Phoebe 
sprang  up,  holding  out  both  arms.  "When  ?" 

He  drew  her  to  him.  "Tomorrow.  So  get  all 
the  rest  that  you  can  today,  little  girl.  Tomorrow 
at  this  time  we'll  be  whirling  along." 

Uncle  Bob  was  watching  them.  "You  mean  it?" 
he  asked  Phoebe's  father.  "You're  going  to  leave? 
And  not  say  a  word  ? — Oh,  it's  all  wrong,  Jim !  It's 
all  wrong!" 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

WHAT  was  all  wrong?  What  word  did  Uncle 
Bob  want  Daddy  to  say  ?  And  to  whom  ?  In  par- 
ticular, what  was  it  that  Uncle  Bob  wanted  Daddy 
to  do?  And  who,  oh,  who,  was  "her"? 

She  longed  to  go  down  to  the  kitchen  and  ask 
Sophie.  But  she  knew  there  was  no  use — Sophie 
would  tell  her  nothing.  Just  now  Sophie  was  on 
her  best  behavior,  and  was  taking  a  distinctly 
grown-up  attitude  toward  Phoebe.  She  had  come 
close  to  being  dismissed.  And  she  had  not  been  in- 
dependent about  it.  For  what  she  had  done  was, 
by  the  very  nature  of  the  case,  known  throughout 
the  town,  which  meant  that  other  families  might 
not  care  to  hire  a  girl  who  had  stolen  out  in  the 
evening  to  a  theatre,  taking  with  her  a  child.  Uncle 
John  had  pointed  this  out  to  Sophie,  adding  that 
he  would  make  it  his  business  to  see  she  did  not 
deceive  any  other  employer. 

Uncle  John  and  Sophie  had  had  what  Phoebe 

guessed  was  a  most  exciting  interview.    Phoebe  was 

247 


248  Phoebe 

almost  sorry  to  have  missed  it.  While  Uncle  Bob 
and  Phoebe's  father  were  out  and  away,  searching, 
Uncle  John  had  attended  to  Sophie. 

Grandma  told  Phoebe  (in  a  whisper!)  that  Sophie 
had  knelt  in  front  of  Uncle  John,  weeping  griev- 
ously over  Phoebe's  disappearance,  blaming  herself 
bitterly,  and  pleading  for  forgiveness.  Uncle  John 
had  been  sternness  itself.  At  first,  he  had  declared 
for  one  course:  Sophie  must  go.  Later,  when 
Sophie  vowed  that  she  would  give  up  moving-pic- 
tures, he  had  softened  a  little.  Still  later,  she 
brought  down  to  him  all  the  photographs  she  owned 
of  "movie"  stars — forty-seven  in  all.  She  had 
thrown  them  into  the  fireplace  in  the  library,  aa*; 
put  a  match  to  them.  Then  Uncle  John  had  re- 
lented. 

So  Sophie  was  being  a  new  Sophie — quiet  of 
foot  and  tongue,  and  quiet  of  dress.  For  two  days 
she  had  not  even  curled  her  hair ! 

"There's  no  use  asking  her,"  concluded  Phoebe, 
feeling  somewhat  injured.  That  man,  too,  was  re- 
sponsible for  the  blame  heaped  on  Sophie — that 
man  who  had  tagged  them  home  from  the  the- 
atre, and  sat  with  them  twice.  Phcebe  was  angry 
with  him,  too. 


Phoebe  249 

She  was  still  puzzling  her  head  over  what  Uncle 
Bob  and  her  father  had  to  say  to  each  other,  when 
here  came  the  former — almost  stealthily,  with 
glances  over  his  shoulder.  His  face  was  red;  his 
eyes  were  solemn.  Once  inside  the  door  of  Grand- 
ma's room,  he  locked  it! 

"That's  all  right,"  he  whispered.  "Grandma 
knows."  He  came  to  sit  beside  the  sofa. 

For  a  long  moment  he  did  not  speak.  He  patted 
her  shoulder  absentmindedly,  and  the  small  hand  she 
had  reached  out  to  him — this  dear  uncle  whom  she 
was  so  soon  to  leave !  All  the  while  he  looked  past 
her,  out  of  the  window.  And  his  lips,  tight-pressed, 
.worked  in  the  way  they  had  when  he  was  framing 
something  important. 

When  he  finally  spoke,  it  was  with  great  gentle- 
ness. "Of  course,  I  wish  you  hadn't  gone  to  that 
theatre  without  permission,"  he  began.  "But  I 
wish  more  that  you'd  been  so  happy  here  at  home 
that  even  a  movie  wouldn't  have  tempted  you.  But 
you  haven't  been  happy.  You've  been  shut  up  like 
a  bird  in  a  cage.  No  chums,  no  fun,  no  school — 
though  Uncle  John  has  tried  to  do  his  best."  He 
stroked  her  cheek. 


250  Phoebe 

Phoebe  nodded.  "He's  talked  about  my  soul," 
she  reminded.  "But — I  guess  it  hasn't  helped." 

Another  wait,  with  no  patting  of  her  shoulder, 
nor  stroking  of  her  cheek.  Then  with  a  sudden 
move  he  fairly  lifted  Phoebe  from  the  sofa  and  held 
her  at  arm's  length.  His  face — Phoebe  had  never 
before  seen  it  with  this  expression.  It  was  white 
now,  and  his  eyes  stared  into  hers.  His  lips  were 
trembling.  He  breathed  like  a  man  who  is  gather- 
ing himself  for  a  leap. 

"Phoebe,"  he  began  again,  "if  Uncle  John  failed, 
it's  because  he  couldn't  help  it.  You  see,  only  moth- 
ers understand  little  souls.  Dear  old  dumpling,  let 
Uncle  Bob  tell  you  what's  wrong!  You've  got  just 
about  everything  that  any  small  girl  could  ask  for 
— good  food,  and  a  roof,  and  clothes,  and  relatives, 
and  a  wonderful  daddy.  But  the  most  important 
thing " 

She  understood.    "My  mother." 

"You've  been  so  brave.  Oh,  Uncle  Bob  has 
watched,  and  understood  how  you've  grieved  since 
your  mother  went.  She  can't  come  back  to  you — 
you  realize  that.  And — and  wouldn't  it  be  best  if 
— if  you — that  is,  certain  care  and  companionship. 


Phoebe  251 

and  love  are  coming  to  a  girl  your  size — you  need 
it,  and  so " 

He  was  floundering,  he  was  stammering,  and  he 
was  getting  very  red  again.  Phoebe  regarded  him 
with  grave  eyes. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Uncle  Bob?"  she  asked 
bluntly. 

He  took  both  her  hands  in  a  firm  grasp.  "I 
mean  just  this:"  he  answered  firmly  enough;  "you 
need  a  new  mother." 

She  stood  up,  and  drew  away  from  him.  "A 
step?" 

"A  step." 

"Oh,  Daddy  has  promised  that  we're  to  be  alone 
together — with  Sally." 

He  nodded.  "Suppose  he  has!  How  about  get- 
ting a  stepmother  yourself?" 

"But  I  don't  want  one!"  she  protested.  "I  just 
want  my  real  mother — like  other  girls  have!" 
And  then,  in  a  quavering  remonstrance  against 
Fate,  and  with  breast  heaving,  and  clenched  fists, 
"Oh,  why  haven't  I  my  mother!  Even  the  kittens 
have  a  mother,  and  the  little  ducks  have  a  mother!" 

"Ah!"  cried  Uncle  Bob,  triumphantly,  "you've 
made  my  point  for  me,  young  lady !" 


252  Phoebe 

"Point?    What?" 

"The  little  ducks  have  a  stepmother!" 

"M-m-mm  1"  That  was  a  new  thought.  Phoebe 
sat  down. 

"That  Plymouth  Rock,"  went  on  Uncle  Bob,  "is 
a  mighty  good  little  hen." 

"I  never  thought,"  agreed  Phoebe.  "Of  course 
that  hen  is  a  step." 

"Nice,  kind  little  step!  You  see,  my  dear,  some 
stepmothers  are  bad — like  Mrs.  Botts.  And  then 
some  are  just  peaches — like  Grandma." 

Phoebe  leaned  closer.  "Grandma?"  she  repeated. 
"You  mean ?" 

"Darling,  we  never  told  you.  At  first,  for  no 
reason,  except  that  we  boys — your  daddy  and 
Uncle  John  and  I — have  never  used  the  word  to 
each  other,  much  less  to  anyone  else.  Afterwards, 
when  I  found  you  hated  stepmothers — when  Ma- 
nila helped  you  to  think  them  all  bad — we  still 
didn't  tell  you.  We  wanted  you  to  learn  to  love 
Grandma  dearly." 

"I  do."  (Grandma!  She  of  the  gentle  look  and 
gentler  voice,  who  did  not  know  how  to  be  cross 
or  unkind,  she  was  a  stepmother!)  "Then  of 


Phoebe  253 

course,"  she  added,  "Grandma  has  never — er — 
whipped  you." 

He  burst  into  laughter,  throwing  back  his  big 
head  and  slapping  his  knees.  "Whipped!"  he  re- 
peated. "Whipped!  Oh,  Phoebe!"  Then,  grave- 
ly, "That  sweet  mother-woman?  Why,  I  couldn't 
love  Grandma  better  if  she  were  my  own  mother." 

"You  couldn't?" 

"I  never  knew  the  difference,"  he  declared  ear- 
nestly. "She's  been  so  wonderfully  dear.  And — 
you  wouldn't  either,  Phcebe.  No;  very  soon,  you 
wouldn't  either." 

"I  wonder,"  commented  Phcebe.  She  was  think- 
ing aloud. 

"Take  your  daddy,"  went  on  Uncle  Bob.  "He 
was  just  a  little  shaver  when  Grandma  came  to  us. 
He  wasn't  strong — he  didn't  sleep.  She  spent  night 
after  night  carrying  him,  mothering  him.  Grandma 
saved  your  daddy's  life." 

"Then  Grandma  is  a  good  step,"  asserted  Phcebe. 
Her  eyes  grew  moist  with  quick  gratitude. 

"There  are  thousands  of  good  steps,"  declared 
Uncle  Bob. 

"But  Manila — see  what  Manila  got!" 


254  iPhoebe 

He  smiled  knowingly,  mysteriously.  "Manila's 
own  fault,"  he  said. 

"No!" 

"Yes.  She  made  the  mistake  of  not  picking  her 
own  step." 

"Manila's  father  picked  Mrs.  Botts,"  confided 
Phcebe. 

"Mrs.  Botts  picked  him,"  contradicted  Uncle 
Bob.  "Oh,  Phcebe,  I  want  you  to  trust  me,  to  be- 
lieve me!" 

"Of  course!"  she  cried. 

"Phcebe," — he  rested  a  hand  on  either  shoulder 
— "you  need  a  good  step.  But  you  mustn't  make 
Manila's  mistake.  You  must  not  trust  to  your 
father's  judgment  You — must — pick — that — step 
— yourself." 

Phcebe  gasped.     "Myself?" 

"Yourself — or  you  won't  get  one." 

"But — but,"  she  protested,  trying  to  rise  from 
beneath  his  hold. 

He  would  not  let  her  go.  "Phcebe !  Oh,  Phcebe, 
listen  to  me!  Your  father  guesses  that  you  don't 
want  him  to  marry.  And  so  he  won't.  For  that 
very  reason  you  must  choose  your  mother.  And 
you  must  choose  her  before  you  go !" 


Phoebe  255 

"Before  tomorrow?" 

"This  very  afternoon!" 

At  that  they  both  rose.  There  was  that  set  look 
about  Uncle  Bob's  jaw  which  Phoebe,  learning  the 
moods  of  men,  recognized  as  a  sign  of  determina- 
tion. Before  that  big,  glowing  countenance  and 
those  clenched  teeth,  Phoebe  weakened. 

He  saw  that.  "Oh,  Phcebe,"  he  pleaded,  "there's 
so  much  that  you  must  know  for  your  own  safety 
and  happiness.  My  little  girl,  you  didn't  even 
realize  what  dangers  lay  along  the  Valley  Road 
as  you  went!  Think  of  it!  It  makes  my  heart 
sick  when  /  think  of  it.  Well,  there  must  be  some- 
one beside  you — some  dear  woman  who  will  love 
you,  someone  you  can  trust  and  love !" 

"But— but  who — ?"  she  faltered. 

He  drew  back.  "Mm, — yes,  that's  so.  Now, 
who?"  He  took  one  of  his  characteristic  turns, 
hands  behind  back,  knuckles  of  one  tapping  the 
palm  of  the  other.  "Now  who?  Of  course,  it  must 
be  somebody  nice." 

She  stared.    "I  should  think  so!" 

"Well," — Uncle  Bob  came  about,  suave  and  smil- 
ing once  more — "there  are  any  number  of  charm- 


256  Phoebe 

ing  ladies  about.  Now  let's  just  think.  Mm! 
Who?  For  instance." 

"We-e-ell."  Phoebe  gave  him  a  sidewise  look. 
Certain  "movie"  stars  (she  could  think  of  two 
whom  she  adored!)  had  loomed  first  in  her  mind's 
eye.  But  considering  what  had  so  recently  trans- 
pired, could  she  venture  to  mention  these  young 
goddesses  to  Uncle  Bob?  She  felt  she  could  not. 
And  besides  might  not  her  father,  if  he  were  to 
marry  one  of  them,  find  her  so  attractive  that  his 
little  daughter 

Staunchly  she  put  jealousy  out  of  her  heart. 
Once  Mother  had  told  her  that  there  are  different 
kinds  of  love,  and  one  could  not  subtract  from  an- 
other. So  if  Daddy  were  to  care  for  a  new  wife,  it 
did  not  follow  that  he  would  care  a  whit  less  for 
his  daughter.  And  so  Phcebe  met  the  problem  at  its 
nearest  point — the  drug-store. 

"There's  a  new  young  lady  down  at  Fletcher's," 
she  informed  Uncle  Bob.  "And  she  likes  me  bet- 
ter than  the  one  did  who  has  the  baby.  Because 
as  soon  as  my  ice-cream  soda  is  gone,  she  asks  me 
to  have  another.  Now,  wouldn't  she  do?" 

Uncle  Bob  looked  dubious.  "It  can't  be  some- 
body who  will  just  'do'." 


Phoebe  257 

"I  suppose  not." 

"And  there's  Daddy.  You  know — in  a  way — 
we'll  have  to  please  him." 

At  that  she  felt  more  jealous  than  before;  but 
she  fought  it.  "Yes,"  she  answered  steadily, 
"we'll  have  to  pick  somebody  that  Daddy  likes. 
— I'll  think  again." 

Uncle  Bob  was  thinking-,  for  he  was  scratching 
his  head  as  he  walked.  "Let  me  see,"  he  mused. 
"Let  me  see."  He  gave  a  quick  glance  at  Phoebe 
from  under  lowered  lids. 

"I  can't  seem  to  remember  another  good  one," 
she  announced  apologetically. 

Her  uncle  halted — abruptly.  He  brought  his  two 
fists  up  in  front  of  him.  He  smiled,  showing  all 
of  his  teeth. 

"Phoebe!"  he  cried. 

"Yes?"    Her  eyes  were  a  little  fearful. 

"Just  the  one !"    He  came  to  sit  beside  her. 

"Who?"     She  sat  very  straight. 

"Phoebe," — he  took  her  face  between  his  hands; 
his  kind  blue  eyes  searched  hers,  shining  upon  her 
with  infinite  love;  "Phoebe,  how  about  Miss  Ruth?" 

She  started.  "Miss  Ruth!"  And  that  moment 
a  strange  thing  happened  to  Phoebe.  The  forbid- 


258  Phoebe 

ding  step-mother  figure  which  had  haunted  her  so 
long — the  tall,  bony,  heavy-shouldered  woman 
whose  arms  were  like  the  arms  of  a  gorilla  that 
Phoebe  had  once  seen  at  the  Zoo  in  Bronx  Park,  in 
New  York;  that  gray-haired,  sullen-eyed,  formida- 
ble, silent  creature  made  out  of  childish  imaginings 
— now  stepped  backward,  as  it  were,  out  of  Phoebe's 
brain;  and  to  take  the  place  that  was  left,  there 
came  forward  Ruth  Shepard,  a  tender  smile  light- 
ing her  eyes  and  curving  her  mouth — Ruth  Shep- 
ard, with  hands  outstretched. 

Phoebe  drew  a  sobbing  breath  of  relief.  "She'd 
be  perfect!"  she  declared.  "She  loves  me,  and  I 
love  her.  And — and  Daddy " 

"Phoebe,"  went  on  Uncle  Bob,  "your  daddy  loves 
Miss  Ruth." 

Phoebe  blinked,  trying  to  understand.  "Daddy 
loves  her?" 

"Devotedly." 

"And — you  love  her." 

"I  don't  count." 

Phoebe  was  puzzling  something  out:  "You  love 
her,  and  Daddy  loves  her,  and  you're  two  broth- 
ers  " 

"And  each  wants  the  other  to  be  happy,"  said 


Phoebe  259 

Uncle  Bob,  as  if  completing  the  sentence.  "But 
'you  see,  Miss  Ruth  loves  your  daddy;  she's  never 
loved  anyone  else — not  since  she  wore  braids  down 
her  back.  So  that's  how  it  is,  old  dumpling.  And 
you'll  understand  why  my  own  brother  pulls  back, 
and  says  No,  and "  His  voice  broke. 

"Uncle  Bob,"  she  asked  tenderly,  "are  you  sure 
you  want  Daddy  to  marry  Miss  Ruth?  Because — 
because  you're  crying." 

His  eyes  were  indeed  brimming.  But  through  the 
tears  shone  a  smile.  He  caught  her  to  him,  laugh- 
ing down  at  her,  pressing  her  head  against  his 
shoulder,  pressing  his  cheek  against  her  cheek.  "Of 
course  I'm  crying,"  he  said,  not  even  trying  to  keep 
his  voice  even.  "Because  I  know  why  you  asked 
what  you  did.  You  think — you're  afraid  that  old 
Uncle  Bob  will  be  terribly  hurt,  broken-hearted. 
And  so  your  tender,  precious  thought  is  for  him. 
Oh,  little  Phcebe!  My  sweet  girl!"  He  choked. 
And  fell  to  rocking  her  back  and  forth,  not  being 
able  to  go  on. 

"Yes,"  she  whispered  up  to  him.  "That's 
why.  Oh,  dear  Uncle  Bob!" 

"Well,  Phoebe," — he  set  her  free,  found  his 
handkerchief,  mopped  his  eyes  with  it,  blew  a  re- 


260  Phoebe 

sounding  blast,  and  took  on  a  wider  smile  than 
ever — "this  is  the  truth,  little  woman:  I  want 
Daddy  to  marry  Miss  Ruth  better  than  anything 
else  in  the  world." 

Phoebe  smiled  back  at  him.  Only  fourteen  years 
had  those  gray-blue  eyes  looked  upon  the  big  world, 
yet  those  years  had  brought  Phoebe  something  of 
that  age-long  wisdom  of  woman  which  is  called 
intuition.  And  as  she  looked  at  Uncle  Bob,  she 
knew  that  he  was,  at  one  and  the  same  time,  telling 
the  whole  truth  and  a  great  falsehood. 

She  put  a  hand  against  his  cheek.  "Precious 
Uncle  Bob !"  she  whispered  tremulously.  And  low- 
ering her  head,  hid  her  face  against  his  breast. 
He  had  freed  her  from  the  ugly  vision  that  haunted : 
he  had  given  her  the  promise  of  love  and  peace  and 
joy.  He  had  said  he  would  do  anything  in  the 
world  to  make  her  happy.  Now  he  was  keeping  his 
word — he  was  giving  up  his  hope  of  happiness 
in  giving  up  Miss  Ruth. 

"More  than  anything,  Phcebe,"  he  repeated  husk- 
ily. 

She  moved  her  head  in  assent.  "Then  he  will," 
she  said  simply. 

"But  there  isn't  any  time  to  lose!"    Uncle  Bob 


Phoebe  261 

stood  up,  wound  his  watch-chain  round  a  finger, 
pulled  the  big1  silver  time-piece  from  its  pocket, 
consulted  it  hastily,  and  shoved  it  back.  "I  must 
get  Miss  Ruth.  I'll  telephone  her  house." 

"Oh,  but  suppose  she  won't  come,"  suggested 
Phcebe. 

"What  shall  I  say  to  her?"  Uncle  Bob  looked 
suddenly  helpless. 

"I  know!"  A  mischievous  twinkle  came  back 
into  Phoebe's  eyes.  "If  she  holds  back  you  scare 
her!" 

He  gasped.    "Scare  her?" 

"Once  I  saw  it — in  the  movies,"  she  confided 
excitedly.  "Oh,  Uncle  Bob,  you  say  to  her,  Toor 
Phoebe  is  dying!'" 

He  joined  in  her  laughter.  "You  muggins!  If 
I  have  to,  I'll  do  it!"  Then  gravely,  "When  she 
gets  here,  go  awful  slow — take  your  time." 

Phoebe  gave  him  a  wise  smile.  "At  first,  I'll 
just  hint." 

"Good.  And — and  there's  something  else:  If 
I  were  you  I  wouldn't  tell  Miss  Ruth  that  you've 
talked  this  over  with  me."  » 

"I  won't,"  she  promised,  understanding. 


262  Phoebe 

"Let  her — and  Daddy — think  it  was  all  your 
idea." 

"If  you  think  I'd  better." 

"I  do.  And,  Phoebe,  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you 
what  to  say,  or  how  to  say  it ;  I'm  just  going  to  let 
you  follow  your  own  blessed  ideas." 

Her  eyes  grew  solemn.  "You  needn't  be  afraid," 
she  answered  reassuringly.  "I  know  just  how  to 
do  it.  I've  got  a  wonderful  plan." 

"Ah,  fine!"  Then  a  little  awkwardly,  "But— 
er — I  wonder  if  you  could  manage  (just  this  once) 
to  tell  a — a  sort  of  a  fib." 

Phoebe  laughed.  "I  guess  so."  And  added, 
roguishly,  "If  it's  a  little  one." 

He  sobered  and  leaned  down  to  her,  taking  her 
hands.  "It's  important.  Even  if  you  don't  un- 
derstand why,  oh,  remember  and  believe  what  I 
tell  you — it's  very  important.  Phcebe,  if  Miss  Ruth 
asks  you  who  wanted  you  to  do  this,  you  must  say 
it  was  Daddy." 

"It  was  Daddy,"  she  repeated. 

He  put  a  hand  under  her  chin  and  lifted  her 
face  to  his.  He  was  smiling.  The  tears  in  his  eyes 
were  tears  of  joy.  "Oh,  my  little  girl,"  he  said 
tenderly,  "this  is  going  to  make  everybody  happy." 


Phoebe  263 

She  looked  up  at  him,  not  smiling,  and  not  in 
the  least  deceived.  She  understood  his  sacrifice.  It 
was  made  for  her  father,  for  Miss  Ruth,  for  her. 
And  that  moment,  Uncle  Bob,  ageing,  growing 
stout,  getting  bald,  was  transformed  to  Phcebe, 
through  her  grateful  love,  into  a  figure  all  knightly 
and  splendid  and  beautiful. 

"I  love  you,"  she  told  him. 

He  swept  her  to  him  in  another  embrace.  "Good 
luck!"  he  whispered.  "Good  luck,  and  God  bless 
you!" — and  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

PHCEBE,  standing  at  the  center  of  her  own  room, 
slowly  turned  herself  about,  as  if  taking  a  farewell 
look  at  the  big,  old  bed — so  forbidding  when  con- 
trasted with  the  dainty,  bewreathed,  ivory-tinted 
"twin"  in  which  she  had  slept  beside  her  mother; 
at  the  low  heavy  chest  of  drawers  that  held  water- 
pitcher  and  bowl;  at  the  marble-topped  "dresser", 
equally  ugly,  with  its  slab  of  stone  like  something 
out  of  a  cemetery;  at  the  tall,  dark  doors;  the 
clothes-closet,  that  abode  of  fearful  shapes;  the 
high-backed  chairs;  and  the  ancient  sofa. 

And  yet  she  was  not  saying  good-bye  to  the 
room  and  the  familiar  objects  in  it  so  much  as  she 
was  to  the  life  she  had  led  there.  A  swift  change 
was  coming.  But  not  a  change  merely  from  the 
big  room  in  the  big,  lonely  house  to  the  dear  sur- 
roundings in  New  York.  That  transfer  was  indeed 
to  be  made.  But  there  was  more  about  to  happen — 
a  glorious  thing!  And  it  was  she,  Phcebe  Shaw 

Blair,  who  was  to  bring  it  to  pass ! 

264 


Phoebe  265 

She  laughed  a  little,  out  loud.  Then  suddenly, 
for  no  reason,  she  covered  her  face  with  both  hands, 
and  kissed  her  palms  as  if  they  were  the  palms 
of  another's  hands.  "Oh,  she  must  say  Yes!"  she 
cried.  "Uncle  Bob  wants  her  to!" 

She  was  all  ready.  Her  face  was  rosy  after  a 
quick  wash  in  the  bowl.  Her  hair  glistened  even 
with  a  hurried  brushing.  She  had  on  white  stock- 
ings, and  her  newest  black  pumps,  and  a  fresh 
smock-dress  that  was  pale  blue. 

She  looked  down  at  herself  and  laughed  again. 
Here  she  was,  who  had  wept  and  worried  at  the 
mere  idea  of  a  stepmother,  and  had  even  been 
glad  that  Miss  Ruth  was  rather  cool  to  Daddy — 
here  she  was,  actually  scheming  to  get  a  step- 
mother, which  stepmother  was  to  be  that  same  Miss 
Ruth! 

She  went  up  to  the  mirror  and  looked  into  it. 
"Phcebe!"  she  whispered.  "Oh,  you're  such  a 
funny  girl!" 

She  sobered.  Her  glance  had  caught  her  moth- 
er's photograph.  She  took  it  up,  holding  it  in  both 
hands,  close,  and  speaking  to  it  as  if  to  the  living. 
"Oh,  you  won't  mind  ?"  she  faltered.  "Oh,  Mother, 
try  to  tell  me  that  you  won't  mind !" 


266  Phoebe 

She  held  the  photograph  against  her.  Was  she 
being  faithless  to  her  own  mother,  in  taking  a  new 
one?  She  turned  to  an  open  window,  and  looked 
up. 

Somewhere  in  the  vast  sky  was  her  dear  one, 
more  beautiful  now,  and  always  to  be  beautiful  and 
young.  Uncle  John  said  this  was  true  of  all  who 
died.  And  even  though  Uncle  John  did  not  like  her 
mother  he  could  not  say  that  she  fared  any  differ- 
ently than  all  the  others  who  went  away.  Out  of 
the  great  blue  was  Mother  looking  down  now  upon 
her  little  girl?  And  how?  Happily?  Or  in  sor- 
row? 

Phoebe  looked  at  the  picture  again.  There  was 
a  tender  smile  on  the  lovely  face.  The  eyes  looked 
full  into  her  daughter's. 

"Oh,  I  know  you  don't  mind!"  cried  Phoebe. 
"You  don't  mind !"  She  knelt  at  the  open  window. 
Great  white  clouds  lay  against  the  blue.  Phoebe 
understood  that  her  mother  was  beyond  them — far- 
ther. She  shut  her  eyes,  praying. 

"Oh,  Mother,  thank  you!"  she  whispered.  "It 
isn't  about  Daddy  you  mind — I  know  that.  But 
about  me — you  believe  I  won't  love  you  any  less, 
ever.  Oh,  Mother,  you'll  see  I  won't  forget  you 


Phoebe  267 

even  for  Miss  Ruth.  Don't  let  it  hurt,  will  you? 
Don't  be  a  weeny  speck  jealous.  Oh,  precious 
Mother!" 

She  kissed  the  picture,  and  got  up,  strangely 
comforted.  There  was  some  pink  tissue-paper  in 
the  bottom  drawer  of  the  dresser.  She  took  it  out 
and  carefully  wrapped  the  photograph.  Then  she 
opened  the  clothes-closet  and  found  the  suit-case. 

The  lining  of  the  cover  was  loose  at  one  corner, 
and  two  or  three  little  things  were  under  there, 
hidden !  A  valentine  from  a  boy !  Some  hair-pins, 
picked  up  now  and  then,  and  useful,  on  occasions, 
for  trial  attempts  at  putting  up  her  hair.  And 
there  was  a  picture  post-card.  A  girl  had  given  it 
to  her — one  of  Miss  Simpson's  girls.  Phoebe  did 
not  quite  understand  the  meaning  of  the  picture  on 
that  card.  But  from  the  look  in  the  girl's  eyes,  from 
the  curious  expression  of  her  mouth,  Phcebe  had 
sensed  that  the  post-card  was  not  nice. 

Now  she  tore  it  up,  with  a  smart  ripping  of  the 
pasteboard  that  had  not  a  little  resentment  in  it. 
They  were  so  "select",  those  Simpson  girls!  Yes! 
But  one  of  them  had  pictures  like  this!  Well,  it 
could  not  stay  in  the  same  place  with  Mother's 
photograph ! 


268  Phoebe 

The  secret  little  place  cleansed  of  its  evil  holding, 
Phoebe  pressed  the  pink-wrapped  photograph  to  her 
breast,  and  to  her  lips;  then  slipped  it  under  the 
loosened  lining.  For  with  more  understanding 
than  fourteen  may  be  credited  with,  Phoebe  realized 
that  any  picture  of  Mother  had  best  be  put  away, 
kept  for  herself  only — not  for  her  father,  or  for 
the  dear  presence  that  was  to  share  a  new  happy 
home. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

"MAY  I  go  right  in? — Phoebe!  Oh,  Phoebe,  I'm 
so  frightened!  Darling, — why — why,  you're  much 
better!" 

Miss  Ruth  had  entered  with  a  rush,  to  find  Phoebe 
just  emerging  from  the  clothes-closet.  Miss  Ruth 
was  breathless,  and  a  little  pale.  Now  she  dropped 
the  hat  she  was  carrying,  and  knelt  on  the  carpet, 
and  caught  Phoebe  to  her. 

"Yes,  I'm — I'm  much  better,"  declared  Phoebe. 
She  bent  to  kiss  Miss  Ruth's  hair. 

Miss  Ruth  hid  her  face  against  Phoebe's  breast. 
"I'm  so  glad !  So  glad !"  she  said  tenderly. 

"You  see,"  admitted  Phcebe,  "I  wasn't  truly 
sick." 

Miss  Ruth  looked  up.    "But  the  Judge  said " 

Phoebe  nodded.  "I  know.  Only  I — I've  just 
been  pretending." 

"Phoebe!"  laughed  Miss  Ruth.  Then,  suddenly 
grave,  "Oh,  you  don't  know  how  it  hurt  to  have 

you  missing  that  day!    Oh,  Phoebe,  I'm  so  happy 

269 


270  Phoebe 

that  you're  just  pretending!"  Then,  catching  sight 
of  the  pumps,  and,  next,  of  the  blue  smock,  "Why, 
Phoebe,  this  dress!  Something's  happened!" 

"No,"  declared  Phoebe,  "not  yet.  But,  Miss 
Ruth,  get  ready !  Something's  going  to  happen !" 

"To  me?"  Miss  Ruth  sat  back.  Her  hair  was 
rumpled.  She  looked  very  young  and  girlish. 

"To  both  of  us,"  promised  Phcebe,  solemnly. 

"Ho— ho!" 

"It's  something  awfully  important,"  cautioned 
Phcebe. 

"Dear  me !  Well,  I  think  I'd  better  get  up,  then, 
and  be  prepared."  Miss  Ruth  seated  herself  on 
the  sofa.  "Now!  I'm  all  curiosity.  Is  there  any- 
thing I'm  supposed  to  do?" 

Phcebe  thought  a  moment.  "Ye-e-es.  Let  me 
see.  — I  think  you  can  lean  back." 

"Ah!"  Miss  Ruth  made  herself  comfortable 
against  a  cushion.  "I  like  this,  because  I  ran  all 
the  way  over."  She  smiled  at  Phcebe  provokingly. 
"And  now  what?" 

"Now  try  to  look  just  as  pretty  as  you  can." 

Miss  Ruth  laughed.  "Oh,  Til  do  my  best,"  she 
declared. 

Phcebe  shook  her  head  at  her.    "I'm  not  joking," 


Phoebe  271 

she  said  earnestly.     "You  know  you  are  pretty." 

"Oh,  give  me  a  kiss !"  cried  Miss  Ruth,  laughing 
again,  and  leaning  to  catch  at  the  blue  smock. 

But  Phcebe  backed  away.  "No,"  she  said  firmly, 
"it's  too  soon " 

"Too  soon?"    Miss  Ruth  was  puzzled. 

"Yes.  You  see  this  has  to  be  done  in  a  certain 
way." 

"Oh." 

"Right  now,  a  kiss  would  be  turning  everything 
upside  down."  Phcebe  was  very  much  in  earnest. 

"Well !  Well !"  Miss  Ruth  tried  to  look  proper- 
ly impressed. 

"Next,"  continued  Phcebe,  "I  come  close  to  you, 
and  I  look  at  you,  showing  that  I  love  you." 

"Phcebe!"  Now  Miss  Ruth  caught  at  Phcebe's 
hand. 

"No!    Holding  hands  also  comes  later." 

"I  see."    Miss  Ruth  leaned  back  once  more. 

"Of  course,  you're  surprised  that  I  love  you " 

"But  I'm  not!" 

"You  will  be  when  you  hear  it  all,"  threatened 
Phcebe.  "And  right  now  you  ought  to  drop  your 
eyes." 

Miss  Ruth  looked  down.    It  was  as  if  she  under- 


272  Phoebe 

stood,  suddenly,  what  it  all  meant.  Her  face  grew 
grave,  and  softly  pink. 

"That's  better,"  said  Phoebe,  admiringly.  "So 
this  is  when  I  reach  and  take  your  hand."  She  took 
Miss  Ruth's  hand  gently,  and  held  it  between  both 
her  own.  Once,  in  a  charming  picture,  she  had  seen 
Mr.  Henry  Walthall  do  precisely  that.  "Miss 
Shepard,"  she  went  on,  "the  first  day  I  met  you,  I 
liked  you  very  much.  That  was  before — Mother 
— went  away.  I  was  unhappy,  and  you  were  so 
good  to  me.  You  knew  how  I  felt." 

"Ah,  my  dear,"  breathed  Miss  Ruth.  She  leaned 
forward,  holding  out  the  other  hand. 

"Wait !"  pleaded  Phoebe.  "Because  I'm  not  done. 
Miss  Ruth,  day  after  day,  for  all  these  months, 
I've  liked  you  more  and  more.  Now  I  know  that 
I  love  you  better  than  I  do  my  relations." 

"Phoebe,  no!"    Miss  Ruth  stared  in  amazement. 

"Yes!  Oh,  not  more  than  Daddy,  because  he's 
not  a  relation.  But,  Miss  Ruth,  I  love  you  as  much 
as  I  do  Daddy." 

"And  I  love  you,"  said  Miss  Ruth. 

Phoebe  dropped  to  the  carpet  at  Miss  Ruth's  knee. 
"How  much?"  she  asked.  "Oh,  think  hard  before 
you  say !" 


Phoebe  273 

"I  hardly  know  how  much."  She  took  Phoebe's 
lace  between  her  hands.  "But  very,  very  much." 

"Do  you  love  me  so  much  that  you'd  do  some- 
thing wonderful  for  me? — something  that  would 
make  me  the  happiest  girl  in  the  whole  world?" 

"What,  darling?"  Miss  Ruth  bent  close.  Her 
look  searched  Phcebe's  face. 

Phoebe  had  meant  to  go  on  just  as  Mr.  Henry 
Walthall  would  have  gone  on — "Miss  Shepard, 
dear  little  woman,  say  Yes  to  me,"  and  then  add, 
"Be  my  mother,  and  Daddy's  loving  wife!"  But 
she  forgot  how  Mr.  Walthall  had  knelt  and  looked, 
forgot  to  be  solemn  and  poised;  and  completely 
out  of  her  thoughts  went  all  that  she  had  planned  to 
say.  Instead  she  threw  her  arms  about  Miss  Ruth, 
and  clung  to  her  wildly.  "Oh,  you  must  come  with 
us !"  she  cried.  "We  can't  live  without  you.  Daddy 
adores  you!  And  /  do!  Oh,  Miss  Ruth,  I  think 
I've  inherited  it !" 

Miss  Ruth  gently  freed  herself  from  the  hold 
of  the  young  arms.  Then  without  speaking,  she 
drew  back  from  Phoebe.  "My  dear,"  she  said 
quietly,  "who  told  you  to  say  that?" 

Phoebe  hesitated.  The  truth  was  that  Sophie  had 
put  the  idea  of  inheritance  into  Phoebe's  head. 


274  Phoebe 

Once  Phoebe  had  protested  to  Sophie  her  great  af- 
fection for  Miss  Ruth.  Whereupon  Sophie,  with 
a  wise  nod,  had  said,  "Sure  y'  do.  You  inherited 
it." 

But  the  truth  would  not  do !  Uncle  Bob  had  told 
Phoebe  what  to  say,  and  she  must  obey  him.  It  was 
a  fib,  and  it  was  not  a  little  one.  But  it  would  do 
much — for  herself;  for  Miss  Ruth;  last,  and  most 
important,  for  the  dear  father,  who,  long  ago,  had 
put  aside  his  own  dreams  for  the  sake  of  the  elder 
brother  he  loved. 

Phcebe  looked  straight  into  Miss  Ruth's  eyes. 
"Who?"  she  repeated.  "Why,  it  was  Daddy." 

Miss  Ruth  caught  her  close,  held  her  for  a  long 
moment  during  which  neither  moved  nor  spoke, 
then  pushed  back  her  hair  and  kissed  her.  "Phcebe, 
dear,"  she  said,  "I  want  to  tell  you,  something. 
From  the  moment  I  first  saw  you  I  loved  you,  just 
as  you  loved  me, — oh,  so  tenderly!  I  loved  you 
because  you  were  you ;  and  then,  I  loved  you  for  an- 
other reason " 

"What?"  whispered  Phcebe. 

"Can  you  keep  a  secret?" 

Phcebe  remembered  Uncle  Bob.  She  nodded. 
"I'm  keeping  several,"  she  declared. 


Phoebe  275 

"Phoebe,"  said  Miss  Ruth,  speaking  very  low,  "I 
loved  you  because  you  were  his  little  daughter." 

"Daddy's?" 

"Your  dear,  fine  Daddy's !" 

"Then  you'll  be  my  mother !  Oh,  Miss  Ruth,  say 
that  you  will!  Say  you'll  come!  Say  Yes!  Say 
Yes!" 

"My  little  daughter!"  faltered  Miss  Ruth.  She 
laid  her  cheek  against  Phoebe's  hair. 

It  was  then  that  Phoebe  heard  a  heavy  step — 
heard  the  door  close,  and  the  step  come  toward 
them.  "Ruth!"  said  a  voice.  (Uncle  Bob  had  sent 
some  one  else!) 

Miss  Ruth  rose,  lifting  Phoebe  with  her.  The 
two  stood,  arms  about  each  other,  waiting.  But 
Miss  Ruth's  look  was  lowered.  Only  Phoebe  silent- 
ly beseeched  her  father. 

"Dearest,"  he  said  presently, — and  he  was  not 
speaking  to  Phoebe ;  "I  suppose  there's  no  use  fight- 
ing against  it." 

"No,"  she  answered.     "No  use." 

"Because  he  wants  it,"  went  on  Phoebe's  father; 
"dear  old  Bob.  He's  the  one  that's  fixed  this  up?" 
He  came  a  step  nearer. 

Miss    Ruth   looked   up   then.      "My  heart   was 


276  Phoebe 

breaking,"  she  whispered,  "at  the  thought  of  hav- 
ing you  go." 

"Ruth!"  He  held  out  his  arms  to  her,  and  she 
went  to  him. 

Phcebe  scarcely  knew  what  to  do.  She  had  never 
seen  just  this  situation  on  the  screen.  But  instinct 
told  her  that  it  would  be  best,  perhaps,  to  let  Daddy 
and  Miss  Ruth  have  this  moment  to  themselves. 
So  Phoebe  turned  aside,  and  looked  out  of  a  window 
at  the  branches  that  were  close  and  the  clouds  that 
were  far.  And  valiantly  she  tried  to  forget  the  two 
behind  her,  and  hear  only  the  birds. 

"I  want  you,  Ruth,"  her  father  was  saying.  "Oh, 
I've  always  wanted  you!" 

"You  do  love  me !"  answered  Miss  Ruth.  "Dear 
Jim!" 

"Tweet-tweet!"  added  a  sparrow  outside.  He 
had  his  head  on  one  side,  precisely,  Phcebe  thought, 
as  if  he  were  trying  to  look  in.  Oh,  the  prying  lit- 
tle thing !  Phcebe  swung  one  hand  at  him. 

"And  Phcebe?"  It  was  Miss  Ruth,  turning  to 
speak,  so  softly. 

"Yes,  Mother?"  said  Phcebe. 


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